He sat the kid up against the tire, tried to adjust the shirt so it wouldn’t fall off. At the edges of his vision he saw more of the same across the kid’s chest.
Maybe killing him would be a favour. He obviously wasn’t strong enough to stop the bumps he took…
Fuck, Milkwood thought. Listen to yourself. Killing the weak? Are you a social Darwinist now? Some fascist idiot who’d never even read Darwin? Is that what she turned you into?
He winced at the memory of his transformation, of beauty and terror pinning him down…they weren’t far from where he’d been raped.
He gripped his skull. Think, man, think. What are you going to do? Leave him here? Kill him? You’ve probably just made him bait for any shitkickers in the Heights.
A car ran by at high speed, drifting over the line. Milkwood ducked as he saw the face in the passenger side and the car’s tires screeched with a hard break.
“Holy Shit,” screamed Pulski over the high volume drone of an old Black Sabbath song. Then the music died. Doors opened. The lights of the Best Bet diner went out.
“Faaaantastic,” Milkwood said. These morons still live here? Are they still in Mr. Jenkins chemistry class, throwing stink bombs and carving their names on the desks in the back corner of the lab, too?
Pulski and Cole left their car in the middle of the street and took messy steps toward them. Milkwood stood in front of the kid, the words he’d thrown at Milkwood still stuck to his brain like brambles. Loser. Loser. Loser.
“Christ, you’re even uglier than when he mashed you in the alley,” Cole said.
Pulski laughed, swinging his butterfly knife in and out of its grip. Then he squinted. “Hold up. He looks…normal?”
Cole slapped Pulski’s shoulder. “This fat fuck has never been normal.”
“Look, you retard. He ain’t even got a black eye.”
Then Cole turned to him. “Holy shit. You got a mask on, retard?” Then his eyes hooked on the ground. Malcolm was out, shirt ripped. “And wailing on kids? You some kind of fucking perv?”
Pulski’s blade stayed out. “That’s the kid from the bar. One who snuck by your bro.”
“That the shit got my brother fired?”
Dogs barked but everyone and everything else ignored that standoff.
“Hand him over.”
Milkwood shook his head.
“Hand him over, loser, or we’ll drag you back to the dumpster and do it right this time.”
“You can try,” Milkwood said. “Cole.”
The thugs shared a glance.
“Oh, I know who you are. Nathan Cole and John Pulski. Two morons that couldn’t even pass basic math. I mean, basic math? Guys, they had monkeys acing those exams and Mr. Garette wasn’t exactly the hardest marker in the world.”
“Who the fuck is he?” Cole asked but Pulski just gripped his blade tighter.
“Me? Just a loser.”
“We knew that,” Pulski said.
“A dead one,” Cole noted.
Milkwood laughed. “Finally, a correct answer from the man who thought Julius Caesar was the real name of Dr. J.”
“Fuck this,” Cole said. “Hand over the kid. Now.”
“Or what? You’ll give me a swirlie?”
“We’ll cut your fucking balls off,” Cole said. “And feed them to Samson.”
“Okay, okay,” Milkwood raised his hands. “You win. You can have the kid if you can tell me when the Second World War started. Just the year. Though I’d hate to see your cerebellum burst with strain.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Pulski.
“And move away from the kid.”
Milkwood sighed. “I tried. Okay, tough guys. Waste me.”
They came at him like drunken idiots, all wild swings and slashing blades. He took the shots, a stab in his ribs and a right cross on his face, and fell beside the kid. “Now stay the fuck down,” Cole said.
Milkwood snapped up to his feet faster than heartbeat. “Okay, follow up question. Who won the Battle of Normandy?”
Two more fists and a kick to the stomach, but he got back up. They glared as he yanked out the blade and tossed it back to Pulski. “Here’s a hint. It wasn’t the fascist assclowns.”
“I’ve had it with this fuck!” Pulski kicked Milkwood’s balls, drilled the side of his face, and then grabbed his pony tale. He dragged Milkwood to a parked Chevy Impala and for a split second Milkwood caught his reflection. Pulski’s face was drunken rage, but beneath it was still the same savage teenager who craved the suffering of the weak. He’d just changed his wardrobe. And there was Milkwood’s pasty face, free of acne now but still chubby cheeks and double chinned flesh torn from the Pillsbury Dough Boy. A face well accustomed to the sting of toilet water and the cold shock of porcelain on a weekday afternoon at Kingston Collegiate, the terrified feeling that someone hadn’t flushed their turds away, and a thug’s voice drilling into his ears before they fill with water. “Take a bath, loser!”
Pulski yanked back, then thrust forward to bash his skull.
Milkwood did not budge. “Not this time, loser.” Milkwood gripped Pulski’s neck and drilled his face through the glass, and his torso followed. The night filled with the howl of broken glass and the ear-splitting annoyance of a car alarm.
But under the alarm was a click that Milkwood sensed before he heard it. He turned. Cole stood above Malcolm, automatic pistol cocked and pointed at the kid’s head.
“Stay the fuck back,” Cole yelled as he dragged Malcolm to the car, hooking his forearm under the kid’s neck, “or I’ll pin the murder of this shit on you.” Some lights flickered on from the houses on each side. Damn it, Milkwood thought. Reason number one billion not to do this heroic shit.
But maybe that was the wrong move to play.
Milkwood walked steady. Cole shook the gun in Malcolm’s ear. “Kill him,” Milkwood said. “Why the fuck should I care? I don’t live here, asshole. You do.”
But the logic bounced off Cole as he pressed the barrel deep into Malcolm’s temple.
This isn’t working, man, move you lousy shit, move or the kid’s dead!
Milkwood darted with bullet speed to beat the itching trigger finger near Malcolm’s skull, eyes burning to cinders, and Cole did what any normal civilian would do. He thrust the pistol out at the monster coming for him.
Finally, a break! Milkwood thought, as the pistol unloaded five rounds in hot succession. Each blast tore through Milkwood like ricochets, cutting through blood, bone, and sinew before blasting out a hole in his back that snapped out large, some jamming into his gut and lodging low. He’d have to tear them out later. Cole fired and fired until Milkwood’s hand came down on the barrel and crushed it.
The idiot fired once more and there was a hideous pop as the gun barrel sent shrapnel everywhere, including Milkwood’s head. Cole’s hand was mangled and Milkwood smiled. He gripped it hard. Snaps of the remaining bone made him smile as Cole dropped Malcolm to the floor.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Milkwood snickered as his teeth itched. “Me? Just your everyday loser from the past, coming back as a Karmic nightmare.”
“What the fuck are you saying?” Cole screamed.
“Jesus, you’re stupid. Fine. Call me Francis Milkwood Mace.” He smiled.
A horrific realization clenched Cole’s face. “Francis Mace? The son of that—”
The word wrestler died in his throat as Milkwood chewed it out in one angry bite.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ON THE EDGE OF Malcolm’s hearing was the steady pulse of a car alarm and, buried within it, a police siren. Distant. Fading. Around him, wind wrestled itself with a rustling whip like flags snapping out in the open. Tar and grit flecked in the air. Above him was midnight cloud. Chills bit his back, which felt bare.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Malcolm scrabbled up from the ground, gripping himself. Beneath his feet were concrete and small specks of gravel, but then all he saw was sky above, dizzy
and big and trying to swallow him. He stumbled, and the air rushed out before his ass hit concrete again. On his horizon was the edge of a roof, a single car parked by some silvery box Malcolm figured was a stairwell from this rooftop parking lot.
He shoved himself up again and saw the city spread out over the dark horizon, a gaggle of lights and small buildings, and a river smell that was cold and different than the Hudson. Less dirty, but saltier.
“Easy.” Milkwood sat on a ledge, sneakers crossed, his shirt torn in a half dozen places. “Had to get out us of the Heights. Not exactly Mr. Roger’s neighbourhood.”
Frantically, Malcolm’s hands scoured his aching body for his cash, familiar wounds…then he gripped his shirt. The back was ripped. Sickness sloshed in his guts. How long was I out? He thought. And the last thing he saw…Milkwood’s burning eyes.
“Sorry about that,” said the fat asshole. “Didn’t mean to wreck your shirt.”
Malcolm gave himself a fierce bear hug. “Just choke me out?”
Milkwood raised his hands slowly. “Sorry. You just…well you hit a nerve I didn’t think I had. I didn’t do anything to you. I’m a freak, not a perv.” His thumbs hitched the rim of his jeans, under his gut.
“Golly, thanks, mister, you’re a real swell hero, and, by the way? Fuck you.” He marched toward the stairwell.
“I saw the bruises.”
Malcolm shivered, trying to hold his shirt together. “So?” He glanced over his shoulder, fearing what the loser might do next.
Milkwood’s ugly mouth seemed to catch on a word, then he swallowed it back. “First things first, here.” He dug into a plastic bag at his feet and threw a black hoodie sweater at him. “You’ll freeze your balls off otherwise. Hope it fits.”
Malcolm stretched the inside of the thick, warm hoodie between his arms and looked out the neck hole, eyes on Milkwood as he shoved it on. The whole thing smelt sour, as if it had been hiding at the bottom of a Salvation Army scramble pile for decades, but he didn’t care. It was warm and the wind didn’t feel like it was whipping his skin anymore, though he wanted to hate the comfort on him, fearing it made him weak, like he couldn’t take what the world was throwing at him on his own. He jammed his hands in the front pouch, but kept the hood off.
Milkwood stood, hands still in his pockets. “Those are serious bumps, kid. The kind you get from steady and regular shots. Cheap shots at that. And believe me, I’d know a cheap shot when I saw it.” He smiled, but it fell away as Malcolm just stood, wondering how fast he could run to the stairs, or down the car ramp. “You’re a lot tougher than you look on the outside.”
“Coming from you, that’s an insult.”
Milkwood grimaced. “Your bro do that damage? The one you were chatting with? The one who sends you head first into places most sane people would see as the international sign for ‘Run the fuck in the other direction’?”
Nerves swelled in Malcolm’s head. “Fuck off.”
“I will.” He blinked. “But hold a minute. I know you’re planning on sleeping in the emergency room. It’s just down these stairs,” he pointed to a concrete box on the roof, “and across the street.”
“You psychic now?”
“Yeah. The ability came with the cape and fangs I got in the mail, along with a year’s supply of sea monkeys.” He took Malcolm’s notebook, pen stuck in its spiral spine, from his back pocket. “I just read your notes.” He tossed them.
Malcolm shoved them in his front pocket, gripping the pen between his sweaty knuckles. “Stick to your day job of getting your ass kicked, leave the jokes to the pros.”
Milkwood threw a dead, closed mouth smile. “Nice retort.” He spoke slow and clear. “Okay, kid, I should never have choked you out. That’s thug ethics, and you sure as shit do not deserve it. So, while you were blacked out, I’ve been thinking of the best way to redress this wrong, to balance the scales. And I’ve got an offer. I’m sure you’ll do fine without it. But I figure I owed it to you. Way I see it, it’s your call. Here me out, or you can split.”
Wind rushed between them, smelling of cold water and dead fish. Malcolm’s radar for pervs was pretty damn strong, and he’d dodged the dirty fuckers in the circuit by courting the tough weirdoes like Eva as friends and allies. But Milkwood was a just a freak, possibly the king freak, but he didn’t have that sinister kindness you found in the faces of the dirty shits. Or maybe that had thrown him. Most of the dirty shits looked like civilians, not, well, whatever the hell Milkwood was besides the strongest grinder Malcolm had ever seen. He took a step back, pen locked in his warm grip. The way Milkwood said, “Split,” did not fill Malcolm with warm fuzzies. “Shoot, Chickenshit.”
Milkwood scratched his hairy forearm. “I am sorry for hurting you, but you better watch that smart mouth. Lots of assholes are not as kind as me.”
Malcolm felt like calling him “chickenshit” again, but didn’t want to risk ruining his new hoodie. “Fine, then just shoot.”
Milkwood wiped a dark stain from his cheek. “I thought about what you said. Your argument had some merit. Not rock solid gospel truth, I wouldn’t start a branch of philosophy to hang your words on. But there was a kernel of truth I found hard to swallow.” He cracked his knuckles and the sound was like firecrackers. “If you want, I’ll fight in the Fringe tourney tomorrow. You could make twenty, maybe fifty large tomorrow night if you bet right. Say, all on me for a kill shot at the end.”
Malcolm took a step back. “What?”
Milkwood smiled. “I’ll win the biggest underdog purse in history. The kind of longshot they’ll be writing about in dirt sheets, hell, history books, for years. And you’ll get half.”
“Half?”
“Half, plus a few cold meals, since you seem to be allergic to the hot ones. Did you see the chunks coming out of you? You should really chew that shit before you swallow it.”
But Malcolm’s hearing dimmed as a daydream flittered through his mind like a flip book going a thousand miles an hour, real clothes like front-row players, not scrounged and stitched throwaways from the Salvation Army, an armful of long-legged arm candy, the kind that would do the things on Rob’s unmarked videos, pretty and slutty, heels as high as forearm, skirt so short you could see her thong, an outfit that would cost…
You selfish fuck, he thought, and his pecker retreated. You could get any PI in Troy, hell NYC, and finally find the grey-faced carney shit heel who killed Mom. That tobacco-chewing loony at the dart board who had stolen her from them…you could find out what happened to her for once and for all and then let it rest and leave…
Rob. I could just cut out and leave him. Hand over a good chunk, to thank him for protecting me when our world turned to a nightmare, and it seemed enemies were everywhere: cops, social workers, street gangs. And I bet he would take it, party like he had ten hours to live…and soon he’d be either dead or in trouble with a thousand dollar habit in his blood.
All the dirty and noble dreams Malcolm had conjured vanished up Rob’s perpetually bleeding nose, and he knew full well that Rob would not let him go knowing Malcolm could make those big paydays, there would have to be a next time, and Rob would grip Malcolm’s life worse than Milkwood’s stranglehold, and the next fight Malcolm would have to make ten times as much, and as soon as his golden picks slipped, as soon as glitch ruined his compass and he backed a loser who didn’t know a triangle or reverse guillotine and passed out before he could unleash his A game…the beatings that waited him in that future scenario would make Milkwood’s performance seem like a pillow fight.
“So,” Milkwood said. “Feel like betting on a sure thing for once?”
Malcolm ground his teeth so hard he practically saw sparks snap out of his mouths. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t work. You lost the exhibit. They won’t allow you the wildcard spot.”
“Normally, you’d be right.” Milkwood stepped closer, torn shirt flapping against his gut. “But they will if you sign me in with this.” Milkwood dug into his back a
sspocket, and between his fingers was a stained, yellow ticket. It looked like an amusement park stub, the kind they tear in half and you have to hold on to the scrap, only bigger. “I earned it during the Maxim fight. Doc Fissure said it was complements of Jackson Lord his own badass self.”
“A circuit breaker?”
“Bingo.”
“They gave you a Jackson Lord circuit breaker?”
“Being a punching bag has its privileges.” He laughed, the wheezy, hyena laugh that nerds on TV have. “Thing is, the Judge sleeps late after exhibitions so he’s only free tomorrow afternoon. And I need some beauty rest.” He chuckled. “So. I need you to cash it in, get my name in the tourney. The circuit breaker will get me in, but you’ll have to put up half my winnings for the entry fee. The rest, we bet. Then I’ll waltz over these bozos and we split the dough. How does that fit your pistol?”
An ounce of comfort warmed Malcolm’s face. He could feel the money in his pockets, and he did not trust it. “What about appearances and being branded as a fall guy and ending up in a cardboard box or kicked out of the circuit and all that shit? You have some kind of breakthrough when you knocked me out?”
Milkwood snorted then did the same one finger handkerchief routine he’d done in the alley. “Had two.”
“So how is some fat fuck who just got his face melted from hot shots from Kudor supposed to be the king of the Fringe?”
Uncertainty rippled over Milkwood’s face. “Let me worry about that.”
“Not if my ass is going to be branded too.”
“You searching for a reason not to walk out of this city a rich kid?” Milkwood’s face soured. “Fine. You wanna know how? I can…sell a fight. Make it look good. Not a cakewalk. Good. Enough that people will believe.” He swallowed. “Trust me.”
“How? If all you’ve taken is beatings—”
“My dad’s a wrestler.”
Shock cut through Malcolm’s sneer. “What?”
Milkwood tugged his ponytail and his head snapped back. “A phony. A jobber. The guy who always makes the other guys look good. It was his art and life and as sad as that fucking statement is, he was good at it and so am I.” Milkwood exhaled with a whistle. “So now that dirty little secret is out among all the others you know, how about it, kid?”
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