Blood and Sawdust
Page 11
A wheezy sound came from behind them and a fat, slobbering black-and-white mutt staggered toward the bar.
“That’s Samson?” Malcolm said. “I was expecting a pit bull the size of a tank.”
“Not so scary, I know.” The barkeep drank the drink down and his breath was laced with rotten tomatoes. “But our night guys ended up worse than that freak we tossed in the dumpster. Right now, he’s the best security we have.”
Malcolm tapped his glass, then took in the guy’s thick knuckles. And his ears. Pure cauliflower. And in the far dark he thought there was movement. His mouth went straw dry. “You’re Judge Sayers.”
The old guy smirked. “Give the monkey a banana.”
“We’re out of bananas,” a female voice called from the dark.
“Well. Maybe we’ll have chilled monkey’s brain.”
“I hate foreign food,” said another female voice, sharper.
Malcolm’s spine turned to cold sweat as red dots appeared on his arm, tracing up to his skull. “Good thing I’m not from around here.”
“Good one, Malcolm Modris Tanner,” Judge Sayers said. “But the novelty of having the Troy Kid in my humble establishment is starting to fade.”
Red dots warmed his skin at the temple and throat. “I’m here to enter a contender for the wild card spot tonight.”
“Really?” The Judge took a long sip from his thick red drink. “Was not expecting that. What I was expecting was that you were here to clear your brother’s debt.”
Boots walked in the dark. Two thick women in denim and leather, the two that had torn rip a new one, emerged from the dark with pistols pointed, the warmth of the red tracer light starting to annoy Malcolm’s skin as they approached the bar. Samson sat on his right, looking stupid with a mouthful of teeth and a tail wagging from his fat ass.
“Debt?” Malcolm said. “With you?”
“Ah,” said the Judge, taking a short, sharp, bone-handled knife from the drawer below the bar. The handle was dirty white from too much use. “Robbie didn’t tell you. How kind of him to carry the burden all by his lonesome while sending you into my camp like a peace offering.”
Malcolm rambled to keep from freaking out. “I run the bets…and he’s never been here, or anywhere in the fringe, how the fuck—”
“Watch the language, Malcolm.” The Judge began to skin a lemon with a small, thin knife. “Your brother’s been using proxies for bets on the fringe for at least a month. Lost five large on the Battersea and Levesque shoot fight. Was a close one, too. Told the proxy with boots on the ground he’d wire the funds.” Sour juice dripped off the gnarled hands as the rind peeled off like thin ribbons. “Proxy lost one finger for every day he was late. Then a toe. Ever see a guy try to eat a sandwich without fingers? You’d think it would be funny, but it gets old. So does welching on debt when you give your word. Your brother left that poor man to suffer his own fate.”
Samson burped. Vile odour tangled with the fresh cut lemon and Malcolm was convinced his sweat was trying to escape this fate one pulsing bead at a time.
The Judge placed the shaved lemon on a wet, wooden cutting board, then dangled the shining knife above. “Proxy eventually earned a pine box. And Rob’s debt is still hanging like the sword of Damocles.”
The knife dropped into the soft flesh of the fruit and the wet gash reminded Malcolm of Rip’s neck. He gripped his tangled hair. “How much?”
“Five, plus interest, is twenty.”
He gagged on the amount. “Twenty grand? Where the hell did he get the five?”
“I am not your brother’s keeper, son.” He took out the knife, sliced the lemon in half, juices spilling and staining the cutting board. “But he sent you as collateral and we’ll be holding on to you until we get our money back.” The gun-toting gals moved behind him and Samson growled. “Easy boy. Funny…never had a soft spot for kids. Must be getting soft from too much roughage, not enough meat.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Malcolm said. “I can pay it.” He reached into his pocket and they tore his arms back and pressed his head against the cutting board, citric acid making his eyes and mouth burn.
“No one won that much last night,” said the Judge.
Lemony spit flecked off Malcolm’s lip as they drove his head almost through the board again. “I can win it tonight. All of it.”
The Judge smiled, big and kind. “You’re a fast talker son, and I appreciate that, but it’s time to send your brother a reminder that he can’t ignore.” He handed the knife to one of the goon sisters. “Are you left handed or right handed? No reason to be cruel.”
“Gripped his hair with his right,” said the daughter on his left.
They slapped his left hand next to his face, stinging in the juice, as the silver blade pressed against his first dirty knuckle.
“First one is the worst,” said the Judge. “Hope that helps some.”
Pain spiked through his body. “I can pay you!”
The blade shook, jamming into Malcolm’s flesh. “Damn, these digits are tough buggers.”
Pain thrust deep, then a sick warmth ran across Malcolm’s finger. Blood and citrus made him hiss, then scream. “I have a circuit breaker from Jackson Lord!” Samson barked as citric flavours and gasps filled the atmosphere.
“Quiet!” said the Judge to the dog. “Prove it, son. Tick tock.” The blade stayed put in his digit.
“My pocket,” he snarled. “It’s in my pocket.”
The Judge sighed. “Search him.” They did, and blood ran off the cut knuckle on to board, pooling into a tiny crevasse on the board as they tore away everything he had and shoved it on the counter: wallet, pad, pen, fake passport. The Judge thumbed through the torn plastic wallet, the Spider Man logo long since worn off. “Hold on.” The yellow stub was pinched out of the roll of twenties of Rob’s cash that Malcolm made the night before. The Judge scrutinized it. “Let him go.”
They did, then the Judge lifted the blade. Malcolm winced and fought the baby-urge to suck his wound.
The Judge held the ticket before Malcolm as if he was ready to smack him with it. “Where does the littlest circuit player in the world find a circuit breaker from his majesty Jackson Lord himself?”
Malcolm slowly pulled his bleeding hand from the cutting board. “My contender got it.”
“The one you want for the wildcard?” said the Judge. Malcolm nodded. “And why should I let him in? We have a dozen wild-carders waiting on tap for tonight. Some big draws, too.”
Malcolm steadied his breathing while holding his knuckle tight to stop the bleeding. “Because my guy is going to make history.”
“Oh. Really.”
Malcolm grimaced. “He’ll win. Every round. And when he does, when he waltzes through everything you have on tap, you can keep the prize money. And everything we used to make the biggest long shot bet in the fringe.”
The Judge smiled, shaking his head. “A sure thing? Who is this gladiator of the gutter who you’re so in love with?”
Malcolm coughed. “Wouldn’t it be cooler if he was a mystery?”
“Son, don’t try my patience. Give me his name or I’ll finish that knuckle so quick, Samson will have it swallowed before you can cry.
Malcolm’s lips twitched. “Milkwood.”
Everyone cackled and Samson barked and howled until the Judge snorted and told him to shut his trap. “Milkwood? I’m glad to see we didn’t cut out your sense of humour. You got a brass pair, joking like that, almost makes me forget how much your brother owes me. But seriously son, joke’s over. Who?”
“I’m entering Milkwood. No joke. No bull. No shit.”
The swear word annoyed the Judge, but he said nothing, hard gaze trying to grip the truth in Malcolm’s words
“Kid, you got a better chance of winning if you go in their hog tied,” said the taller sister, the one with the silver hoop earrings. The shorter one, with longer hair in a ponytail down her back and a hawklike face, just shook her head.
“He’s a freakshow, Malcolm,” the Judge said, tucking the ticket into his own wallet. “A gimp. Circus fun for the joy of splatter. Great for an exhibition, and I rather enjoyed his effort last night because good god Kudor is about as unique and interesting as tits on a cow. But he’s not a real circuit player, not by a long shot and you should know better. He won’t last round one.”
Malcolm steadied his breathing. “He’ll beat everyone.”
“Now, Malcolm, I know you’re desperate—”
No matter how hard he squeezed, blood was seeping down his hand. “We’ll pay the entry fee with half his winnings.”
The Judge licked lemon juice from his own knuckle. “That’s fifteen back in my pocket, if I go along with this silliness.”
“That leaves me five to bet with, and that should cover it.” But losing all that money, just as soon as he’d got it…he squeezed his finger tighter.
The Judge tapped his lemon. “With that five, the best you can make is ten, even with all the long shots on your side. You’d need another ten to wipe out Rob’s owings.”
“I’ll get it.” Malcolm grimaced, not knowing what else to say.
“And if he loses?”
Malcolm’s finger dripped. “You finish what you started. Not like I can run away from you on your own turf without losing my fingers and everything else, right?”
The Judge considered Malcolm, his knuckle, and Samson’s drooling face. Then, he nodded. “Okay, son. Deal. Can’t exactly piss on the mighty Jackson Lord now can I?” His daughters grunted, then wandered back into the darkness. “But just in case you find a way to scurry to the border before game time,” he snatched the passport. “I’m keeping your boots on Canadian soil.” With a wide mouth he shoved in half a lemon, chewing until Malcolm’s whole body puckered. “See you and freakshow tonight.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TIME ATE ITSELF while Milkwood tapped the pink rotary phone on the nightstand in the afternoon gloom. If the kid had made the deal, he’d be on his way soon, and then it would be put up or shut up. Victory was coming and Milkwood was terrified about how to handle it. He needed help. And there was only one rotten son of a bitch on earth that might do it.
His heart still beat, which was a good sign, but the hollowness of knowing it would fade made him sigh. And after tonight, when he won big time, he’d need to eat. Big time.
Tonight, he thought, it’s either the dumpster or become champion of the world…and that means calling him. “Fuck.”
He picked up the receiver and tried to dial the number from memory. But he was stuck with a rotary phone and the numbers were gone, just the pattern of them on the keyboard remained. That’s how little his brain wanted anything in it from the old home town. He took the history pamphlet, bit his fingertip, and dropped some blood. It was still bright, but not shiny, and he used it to draw an old keypad on the back of the pamphlet, then punched it until he recalled the pattern as a regular phone number, remembered the rhythm. Then he dialed the number…the one attached to a bourbon stained answering machine that Mom erased every night Dad had left a message, erasing even those weak attempts to make a connection, so Milkwood only caught snippets of where Dad had ventured, and how the venues started to shrink from big cities like Montreal, Toronto, NYC, Atlantic City, and Boston, and descended into Emporia, Fort Wayne, and Humble, and, finally, the made-up names when he was out of work, Rat’s Ass, Arkansas; Bitters, Ohio; Buffalo Chips, Nebraska. Then, nothing.
The long, ratchet sound of the dialing rotary phone finally ended. A click of a connection and the sound of an old phone rang distant in Milkwood’s ear.
No. I can’t do this—
CLICK. “Hello?” said a female voice. “Hey, hello?”
He inhaled deep, a catch in his throat, and covered his face. “Hi. I’m looking for…Mr. Mace.”
“I’m afraid he’s out.” She sounded young. How classy. “Can I take a message?”
He coughed. Blood spat against the pink wall. “Yeah, sure. Could you tell him his…just tell him Francis called.”
“Francis? You mean his son?”
His heart thudded harder. “Well. Yeah.”
“Hold on, he’s just resting his eyes and he didn’t want to be disturbed because those fans of his just won’t leave him alone.”
Fans? He still has fans? Wait, he never had any fans.
“I can’t believe it’s you! Sorry, I’m Marjorie. Your dad’s girlfriend. Damn, I have to get to work but it’s nice to finally talk to you. Congratulations on your Ph.D. and everything.”
Malcolm smiled, watching the blood slide its way down the wall, a slave to gravity. “Oh. That. Thank you.”
“Are you calling from Oxford? This must be costing a fortune.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”
“Okay, great. Drat, wish I could talk long but it’s nice to finally put a voice to a name. If you ever come back to Canada, just let us know and we’ll make this place spic and span though it might not be as nice as a professor’s home with books and everything.”
The blood left a pale trail against the pink wall. “I’m sure it’s lovely. Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Okay, wait, I’ll get your daddy.” Considering she was likely as young as Milkwood, hearing her say Daddy made his balls shrink. She covered the mouthpiece but he could hear her voice shout. “Ron! You’re son is on the phone!”
The blood hit the floor when Dad’s voice hit his ear. Quiet, smooth, but strong. “Prove it.”
“Prove what?” Milkwood said.
“Prove you’re my son or this conversation is over. I don’t do interviews for free, chief. Prove it or cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell you the tale of the greatest heel in wrestling history.”
Milkwood smiled, bitterly. Still a slick son of a bitch. “Well, which son am I supposed to be? I actually find it hard to keep track. Not counting whatever ones you had on the road.”
Silence.
“Am I the one who went to Oxford and is a professor, or the one you abandoned so you could live the life of a jobber on the road?”
A heavy sigh, thick with years of Dunhill cigarettes and Yukon Jack chasers. “Francis.”
“How much other horseshit has young Marjorie been swallowing? Does she know wrestling’s fake? Or are you still robbing the cradle for dumb blonds with fat tits and too much lipstick?”
A yawn. “Any reason you’re calling? Other than to piss in my face?”
Malcolm saw red. “Do not get righteous with me, ‘daddy.’ You ain’t earned the right, not by a longshot.”
A cigarette was lit, a drag taken, an exhale long and slow. “What do you want? Don’t have much money but you’re welcome—”
“Never needed cash from you before and I don’t need it now.” Milkwood snorted. Then swallowed. Calm the hell down, idiot. Screaming at the old man may not be the best strategy here. “I need advice.”
“On what?”
Do it. You have to do it. He scratched his neck. “You know that time you got the upset victory on Jazz Mercury?”
Silence ran across the line.
Milkwood closed his eyes. “Dad?”
“Yes,” Dad said. “I remember. Of course I remember.” His voice took the tone of the sermon that accompanied all of his sage old stories from the road, though Malcolm was glad he wasn’t within spitting distance of his stank breath. “My greatest match. I made that crowd believe that Ronnie Mace, king of the cheaters, could grapple for real. Had them eating bullshit out of my hands like it was a steak dinner. That a skinny shit like me could break down a brick shithouse…that’s art in motion, chief. Gave everyone in that stankhouse auditorium a match for the ages, and not one TV camera was there. Just a handful of photos—”
Milkwood pinched his skin to focus but he couldn’t feel it so he shoved his wrist into a patch of light so it burned. “Right. I know that part.” He swallowed what was left in his dry throat. “But Dad, how did you do it?”
“…and like the prodigal son you’ve come back to ask for your father’s secrets.”
“Yeah. So how did you do it?”
“No.”
Milkwood gripped his forehead.
“Why the hell do you need the key to the garden of Eden all of a sudden?” his dad said. “Oh god, oh god, pray tell me this isn’t happening.” He took a long, sad, dramatic inhale. “My boy. This isn’t for some book report. You don’t vanish like Houdini from my life for ten years, your mother unleashing cops on me across the country harassing my ass like I’m some kind of criminal responsible for your disappearing act, and generally giving me shit while I wonder if you’re dead or not, and now, out of the blue, after I’d finally laid your ghost to rest, you crawl out of parts unknown and ask me to surrender my sacred grail…It only makes sense if…my boy, you’ve picked up the family trade, haven’t you?”
Milkwood groaned into his fist and buried his head in a pillow. Faaaantastic.
“Where you working?” The snickering tone under the word working meant “where you wrestling?”
“Dad.”
“Down south? You sound different, like you’ve been getting better air. Florida?”
The afternoon gloom gained ten pounds. “Yeah. In one of the extreme leagues. Kind you hate. Bats, chairs, staple guns.”
“God, that ain’t wrestling, that’s—”
“Gimp work. I know. Gotta start somewhere.” His face scrunched. “Anyway. How did you sell it? Jazz wasn’t even on the same page as you.”