Excuses were running dry in Malcolm’s head.
“What’s the problem?”
His cold hands flexed. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t.”
“Think big brother is going to steal it all, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“He wants you to win but if you win too big, well, then that becomes the new law of averages. And I can’t go on winning and winning like a fucking machine or else they will know something is seriously FUBAR, and that means you’re back to earning beatings. Unless you take the money and run.”
Malcolm’s voice was ragged. “You don’t know shit about shit about me.”
Milkwood snorted, gripping one arm. “I know I hit a nerve. I know you’re turning down serious money to go home and get wailed on by someone who is supposed to protect you. And from where I stand, that’s as chickenshit as anything I’ve seen. Or done.”
Malcolm seethed, pen in hand. “I said shut up!” Grinding steps took him toward the concrete stairs. But his knees buckled; there was nothing but black sky fading into deep blue surrounding him. Gasping, empty, whole body aching, he landed on his knees. Mom. He’d have the cash to find her killer, maybe get Rob help, maybe get away from the pounding, the paranoid Sundays talking Rob down until he stormed out of the apartment threatening anyone, everyone, or those tired, hungry Mondays scrounging for whatever cash Rob didn’t snort, killing himself before Malcolm’s eyes—
Malcolm slapped his head. “Suck it up.” He slapped it harder, then started punching until the pain ate everything. But his eyes misted. “Suck it up!” His fist pounded. “Suck it up, you miserable shit!”
He wailed on himself but nothing could stop the tears. He hated every drop of weakness. Every useless stain. Every ounce of proof he was just a useless fourteen-year-old kid.
The pain stopped, but his fists were shaking.
Milkwood held his hands apart, then jammed the ticket inside Malcolm’s right fist. “Don’t do his dirty work for him.”
Malcolm gasped, drowning in air, and Milkwood released his wrists. “Choice is yours. Put my motel number down on your pad. I’ll be up and moving around six. If you get me in the game, knock twice, then once, then twice. But no skin off my nose if you bail. Can’t say I didn’t try and help.” Then his pear shaped form walked to the lone car, a tiny rust-eaten yellow Rabbit.
Malcolm got to one knee. “Wait.” Milkwood stopped, but did not turn.
From a small place, deep in his gut, he heard his mother’s strong voice, the last day at the fair. He’d talked about wanting to ride the roller coaster all day, but as soon as he saw the rickety roller coaster, his guts vanished. Rob called him a coward before running off to the Midway to chase girls with bad teeth and low riding jeans. But Mom stood in line with him. Feeling his hand tremble, she spoke in Latvian, the handful of words Malcolm knew.
“You can only be brave if you face fear, Malcolm Modris Tanner.” And he got on the ride alone as she watched. The last thing Mom saw was him being brave. Terrified, but going forward. Alone.
Wiping his dripping face across his sleeve, Malcolm stood. “I’ll do it.” Milkwood nodded then got in his car, the crap engine revving up like a remote-control buggy. “But you better fucking win!” He would need that money. Wherever he went. Because now, he knew, going home was suicide.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAWN WASN’T FAR from twisting the black sky pink, but Milkwood wasn’t sweating it. He was full. Blood running through him like he was alive and well and normal, heart pumping like old times, bullet wounds healing. Even if the sun burst through clouds, blasting him through the window of his rusty yellow Rabbit, he’d probably just have a mild itch. Lessons learned hard in the gutter, after he got bit.
He cruised through the old home town, up Princess to the Siesta Motel where he’d booked a room for a slim clasp of bills. If I can nail this tourney, he thought, then the next time I’m staying at Hilton, or something better than a no-star motel that hookers called home and roaches rented out by the hour.
He parked the noisy car and the engine rattled like a dying man with his finger in a socket before it stopped shaking. The Notebook man who’d sold it to him said it was the best he could do on short notice, but it came with a passport and IDs. If he wanted to head south, he could do it without the sad sacks of the bus line.
But is that where I’m headed? he wondered, pulling the key out, jagged teeth looking back at him. One step at a time, man. One step at a time.
He strolled toward the Siesta’s lobby under jaundiced yellow streetlights, but the thought kept grabbing him. Shit on a stick, I’m really going to do it. I’m really going to win something for once. No more face mashing for dollars. God, imagine the look on the crowd’s face when Kudor breaks like a dried-out twig against the back of my hand. Christ, it might just be worth it to see that! Smiling, he pushed open the door to a weak jingle of bells.
The place smelled like bad sex and good weed, and that weird, sterile, sick smell of hotel cleaning supplies. An empty couch with week-old papers sat against the wall next to the main hallway. To his right was the desk. No bell.
“Hello?”
A radio sat on the lower side of the desk, K-ROCK blasting out the same stuff as always: crap rock from the 1970s, as if the city was still lost in a time when Led Zeppelin and the Who never died and John Lennon was alive and well in NYC. Currently Rush, the go-to band for playing some Canadian content, was cranking out a synthesizer laced epic about suburban alienation, the kind of songs built for sad Sundays for lonely losers and damn it if wasn’t getting under Milkwood’s skin. The video flashed behind his eyes, the kid, a slightly pudgy four-eyed nerd, gets laughed at by all the preppy kids, so he spends his days lost in Tempest, one of the great “you can’t win” arcade games of the eighties. The hypnotic keyboards and ethereal guitar lines reminded Milkwood how tired he was of nostalgia, of how little this goddamn home town had to offer him. If he ever found the son of a bitch who ratted out the East Coast fight circuit, forcing them all to the fringe, there’d be nothing left but bone and skin.
“Hey,” he yelled. “Anybody working tonight or do I get to pick a room myself?”
Behind the desk in the back office, a door slammed. The office door swung open and an overweight woman with big, frizzy hair emerged. Her deep-blue jeans were way too small for her thick thighs, and a long sweater hung off her with all the beauty of a laundry pile. “Sorry. Smoke break. Union rules.”
Union rules? He hadn’t heard that excuse since high school. Oh shit, no, don’t do this to me, Kingston…
Yup. It was her. “Cindy LeBarron.”
Fuck. He should have zipped it, but it was her and her eyes were glassy as the front row of a Phish concert.
Her face crinkled like stitches on dough. “Yeah? Who wants to know?”
He pointed at her nametag, scared his voice might give him away.
“Oh yeah,” she snorted. “Right.”
He scratched his face to hide it.
“What name was it under?”
“Milkwood,” he said, roughly.
She flipped through the pages of the reservation book, not a computer to be found in this land that time forgot, and all he could think of was how much worse she looked since they’d worked nights at Edelweiss Books. He’d seen meth fiends with better skin.
“Nothing under that name,” she said, taking a cigarette from behind her ear, hidden by that wild mane of split ends. “Might it be under another?”
“No,” he said, and despite the warm blood in his veins he was starting to get nervous.
“No? Maybe not Francis Mace, the worst poker face in history?” She beamed, ran around the table, and hugged him like a bear. “How are you, man?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck the fringe, he thought, trying to work up a smile. “I’m okay, Cindy. Tired, but okay.”
She released him and despite the fact that he smelt like trash and beer and blood and fuc
k knew what else, she still smiled at him. “God, haven’t seen your head in town since…well, when the hell was it you vanished?”
Little tiny itches started to crawl into his skin. Through the Siesta’s main window, sunlight was invading. Damn it, he thought. Bullets must have done a greater number on me than I thought. “Five years? Yeah, five since we last played poker at the store. You beat me every time.”
She ran behind the desk, hunting for his keys. “Because I cheated.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“I did, every time. Just to see that dumbfounded look on your face, Mr. Fancy degree in history.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Loved it, loved it, loved it. Yup, just like the one you’re wearing now.” Her laugh was girlish but had a hint of mischief, like she always had one over on you. The kind pretty girls had, which made it seem so damn sad to hear it come out of Cindy LeBarron. Despite the porn star name, she only attracted bottom feeders and assholes who used her for rough trade in exchange for promises of love, and she always ended up tossed, ignored, or trashed as they moved on to the next sad girl with a strong libido to manipulate.
“Hey, watch that history shit,” Milkwood said, scratching his arm. “I thought you were college bound, too. All that studying we did, well, after you beat my ass at poker. Anthropology, wasn’t it? Said you wanted to be the first Lady Indiana Jones.”
Her good humour flinched. “Oh, that? Just talk, man. And daydreaming about Harrison Ford.” The giggle was shorter and he could see it in her eyes. She’d given up. Somewhere down the line, the money or the interest of the self-doubt had crushed her like a bag of concrete dropped from heaven. Damn, he thought. I was probably the only person she trusted with her dream, someone who thought studying was righteous, was as good for you as getting laid and drunk and stoned.
A deeper, slicker sickness ran through his veins, polluting the good vibe of the blood. “Sorry to hear it.”
“Shit, don’t be. University wasn’t really my thing, man. Here, I get a free room and board and all the coffee I can handle. Still pull a few shifts for Oscar at the bookstore, too.”
God, Milkwood thought. Still working at the same bloody bookstore she’d been at fifteen years ago? This was awful. He didn’t need to see in a crystal ball to see the shit end of the stick where Cindy was headed. “Say, you know it’s never too late to start night courses. Lots of folks do it these days. Some take courses online so they don’t have to…” He kept talking, and she smiled as his words bounced off her stoned countenance, waiting for him to shut the hell up about dreams she’d let die that he, a fucking circuit freak, was trying to dredge up and shove back in her face like a dead loved one.
He stopped talking and relief filled her face. “Cool, cool. Let me just get your key.” She turned and faced the wall wrack of numbered keys, each one leading to another four walls of stained wallpaper and nicotine off-white sheets. “So, what happened to you, man? Oscar just about had a heart attack when you didn’t show up. You worked there more than he did some days. Especially summer where he spent most days at the cottage. We spent most the time wondering where you ended up, some fancy school or maybe joined the circus or something. I mean, you kinda dropped off into the crack of nothing for god knows how long.”
He had. And not much of that time was clear in his undead head. There was living on the street, a wild thing of instinct and hunger, of fear and violence, and running like a wild thing on foot as far as he could away from this city where she’d turned him into what he was…and when his brain cooled enough to make thoughts that didn’t start with “feed” and “run”, he cut his way to Toronto to hide amongst the mass of the underclass, trying to figure himself out without getting killed. Then, when he knew what he was, he kept running. Far. Far away from what she’d done to him.
Keys jingled in front of his face. “Hey, earth to Francis.”
“Sorry. I’m pretty dead.”
“I guess so, it’s almost five.” She yawned, her belly stretching out as big as her once firm and large breasts. He felt rotten for not finding her attractive, setting his own sights on ideal glamour candy, the kind that laughed at him just like all her chubby-chasing alpha jerks laughed at her. “But what happened?”
He gave her a sad smile. “Went into the family business.”
“No shit,” she said, picking up a mug filled with creamy coffee that looked as cold as his heart. “Like your dad?”
He nodded, the lie coming so easy it made his stomach twist. “Yeah. Did a few dark matches in the US and now I’m on tour, making a lot of muscle heads look like Achilles.”
Both hands slapped her cheek. “Wow, that’s great. My son LOVES wrestling. You have to give my son an autograph.”
Jesus Christ, she has a kid? Looking at her as she rambled on about her son, he couldn’t help think of Malcolm, out hustling to an Emergency Room to pass out in a bad chair for a few hours. At least Cindy would never rough up her kid. She was a mess, sure, but she wasn’t a monster.
“God, I should wake him up right now…he’d be thrilled to meet a real wrestler in person! We haven’t been able to go to any arena shows because, well, even the cheap seats are brutal and then there’s the gas and I know he’ll want a foam finger and a pretzel…”
The itch on his arm was burning. “Maybe later? I really need—”
“Oh, sure, here,” she gave him the keys, and her tone had gone from excited to embarrassed. “I guess you have more important things to do than catch up with old work buddies before you hit the road again.” She lit up her cigarette but the smoke was tangy and strong and if there was any tobacco in there it was just for colour. Stoned at work was something even Oscar wouldn’t allow.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Cindy,” Milkwood said, and somehow saying her name made everything seem awkward and forced. “I’m tired. It’s been a hell of a night.” But she kept dragging on her joint, hoping the smoke would drown the tears in her eyes. How had he offended her? What had he done? He had no idea. The sky outside was blurring from inky blue to lava pink. The itching turned to pain as he took the pen from the reservation desk, then the pad of Siesta Motel notepads. “What’s your son’s name?”
She exhaled long and hard. “Brody. After Bruiser Brody.”
Naming your son after a wrestler who was murdered in Puerto Rico? “Awesome.” He scrawled, ignoring the burning itch crawling up his hand like a rash on speed.
“Dear Brody—Stay in School, Train Hard, and Always Respect Your Mother. And don’t cheat. Best. Stretch Armstrong.”
He handed the paper to her. “I doubt he’s heard of me but I hope he likes it.”
She sat, joint in her fingers by her eye, one hand holding her elbow. Sizing his kindness up like a rattlesnake looking at limp pray. Then she snapped it from him, her glazed eyes hardened. “Oh, Francis.”
How the hell did I piss her off now, he thought, before a smile cracked through the haze. “This is just terrific. I’m sure he’s heard of you. He’s so into wrestling, he even knows your dad.”
Milkwood’s smile sagged, but he propped it up. “Fantastic. Now I better hit the showers. I smell like a flaming garbage bin. But it was good catching up, Cindy. Take care.”
“Great talking with you, man. Who would have thought two bookstore nobodies like us would ever meet again, huh? You need anything, just call. I’m here until six. And my room’s 109. You know, if you’re bored after your shower. We could play poker.” She giggled.
He smiled, faking enthusiasm. “Maybe. But this time I better pick the deck.” They both laughed, said goodnight, and Milkwood walked fast down the hall. Itchiness across his arm finally eased.
What a night, he thought, opening the door to his room, trying not to think of Cindy and her broken dreams, shit job, and wrestling-addicted son. He tossed his knapsack of possessions on the bed, undressed, and got in the shower. As the water drained the remaining blood and stench off him, the warmth of his blood dissipated some, and his heart beat slowed.
Just a smidgen. Everything would be running smooth, but slowing some, for a day or so. He’d bleed bright and shiny for the good folks in the front row, at the very least, even if the blood wasn’t his but a loaner from some shitstain thug who got off pushing kids around.
Like me, when Malcolm called me on my own shit.
He exhaled for old time’s sake, water dribbling down his weak chin. Yeah, he’s got a knack for kicking you were it hurts, don’t he? And you almost treated him like everyone else. Jesus, when did I get so close to being like the shit heels I hate? Maybe that’s the circuit. Gets in your blood.
Or the blood you’ve got. Soon enough, even that would be gone, devoured by his strange physiology. And a hunger so deep and savage would again be needed after he made his name in the fringe. Instead of being a joke in the gutter.
Time to make this tourney count, he thought. Or do I really crave being the butt of every joke so bad I’m willing to screw this up?
He dried off with a towel that looked filthy, then stood in front of the mirror. Of all the things that were superstitious horseshit, this was the worst. Instead of seeing an empty reflection of the bathroom, a dead view of the motel room, Milkwood was treated to his two hundred and seventy pound blobbiness under the flattering glow of a single bulb jutting out of the top of the mirror. He raised his arms and flexed his biceps to no effect.
“Ladies and Gentleman, may I present, the Circuit Champion of the world.” Then he laughed to keep his eyes from misting and hit the light.
CHAPTER NINE
HANDS IN HIS HOODIE’S POUCH, sleep pulling at his eyes with iron fingers, Malcolm approached the automatic doors of the hospital and took a deep breath. He loved the smell of emergency rooms. No matter how shredded the sad sacks bleeding in the cheap seats were, or how many idiots were sporting puke stained shirts or rusty old beards, there was a hideous clean in the air. Chemical smells. Antiseptic. Anti-death. Even in his own ripe clothes, that dirt-killing aroma eased his shakes and cold, sore hands.
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