Blood and Sawdust

by Jason S Ridler

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “I’m not handing you the keys to the garden for some gimp show.”

  “I’m not going to use it tonight—”

  “Francis, my boy, I can smell lies from a thousand yards, and you just stank up the joint. Ain’t no way, ain’t no way I’m giving you the greatest moment in my life to thrill some inbred hicks looking to watch stunt men pretend to do the art. Ain’t no way. When you’ve paid your dues—”

  The glom went crimson. “Dues?”

  “You heard me. Dues. When you’ve walked a few more miles in my moccasins—”

  Milkwood stood. “Dad.”

  “—and seen what it really takes. The intestinal fortitude—”

  “Please.”

  “—and the guts to take the bumps—”

  “Bumps?” Milkwood screamed, hoarse and low. “You want to match bumps with me, you fucking jobber? I’ve taken more upper cuts and jabs and kicks and stabs in the past five years than you in your whole career.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “And, news flash, Ronnie Mace, the difference is it was real. I was taking the bumps. For. Real. Like a fucking man. Not a pretender, a third rate actor in a clown suit, selling his soul to the crowd for an eight ball of coke and a blow job from a ring rat while his family rotted away—”

  “Don’t you judge me—”

  “I’ve been beaten by psychos. I’ve swallowed more teeth than you’ve ever grown. I’ve walked face to face with men that would make you shit your pants if they even farted in your fucking direction. I’ve done it, Dad. I’ve let them wail on me. I’ve taken every shot you couldn’t. And I’ve gotten up. Every time.”

  “Is that right? My boy a bona fide shooter?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “Then why the hell do you need to know how to sell a match?”

  Milkwood’s lip flinched.

  “Ah. Want to keep that off stage, do you? Couldn’t be you’re not selling me the whole deal?”

  “I do not need this.”

  “Oh you do, son. Sounds like you’re high on your own bullshit and somebody needs to square your sites. Or else, why would you call the last person on earth you want to talk to?”

  “Watch it.”

  “You said it yourself, I’m nothing but a no-good pretender. A worthless jobber. And look at you, mister big-shot shooter, bragging like his dick is a walking stick and his shit turds smell like Chanel perfume. And yet, here you are. Calling long distance. Not out of love. Not out of respect. But out of need.” His voice became molasses slow. “Know what I think, my boy? I think you’re in to something way over your head. I think whatever it is scares you like open closets used to, past dark. Yeah, I remember. Chubby little boy scared under the sheets, thinking only his daddy could save him from whatever hell came out of the dark. Yeah. That boy. My boy. He’s so scared he could only think of one man to run to, to brag to. And you know what, my boy. I’ve changed my mind.”

  Milkwood punched his head, thinking, I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you.

  “I’m going to give it to you. Give you the straight goods on how I made history turning lies into truth for fun and profit. And do you know why?” A hushed laugh crackled across the phone line. “Because after I tell you, you’ll hate me worse than Christ hates a cross. But no matter how much you’d like to see me shoved in jail for being a last-class father, you needed me. You ran home to Papa because no one else could or would help you. Worse, whatever success you have, you’ll never be able to enjoy it without thanking me. And that, my boy, is too heady a wine for me to refuse. So, take a seat. Time for me to take you to school.”

  Milkwood shook his head as the receiver cracked in his clenched hand.

  “Francis? You hear me?”

  Milkwood sat down, brought the receiver to his ear, and said, “Go on, Dad. Take me to school.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CITRIC BURNS LACED Malcolm’s wounded knuckle beneath the Band Aid the Judge had tossed at him. Damn wound still leaked some, too, but at least the stinging scent of lemons was better than the trash stink he must have carried with him from the dumpster.

  Shaky, he walked from the Iron Horse bar, snickers and hoots from the Judge and his daughters and the deal he’d made to save his ass and screw his future. And Milkwood’s. Now they were stuck having to win a tournament where the only prize was Malcolm’s life. He wasn’t sure, but figured this was not the payday Milkwood wanted for finally kicking ass and taking names for the first time.

  Approaching the door, butterfly knives fluttered in his stomach, swirling out of control. Thanks, Rob, he thought. Even when you’re not here, you’re still making me suffer. Now his passport and only hope of escaping the fringe was in the lemon-stained hands of the Judge. Samson walked him out, slobbering, tail wagging, no doubt looking forward to a ten-digit meal tonight. Maybe more. The red dots pricked Malcolm’s neck until he shut the door behind him.

  Outside, brisk wind now mixed with the distant thrum of a highway and the assorted honks and breaks of local traffic. Malcolm hustled through the near-empty parking lot that looked rougher in daylight. A fence ran around the whole thing, all the way to the alley, and lining up with the chain link were dark trees with gnarled and crippled branches.

  He walked down the main driveway of the Iron Horse, the massive dirty-white saloon like a huge bunker to his right, and he kept hustling. He needed people. Faceless anybodies. Safety in crowds. Had to walk into the flock and disappear from the eyes of cops and criminals. No distinguishing marks. A busted finger was like a branding, Malcolm figured. He tore off the Band Aid and cold air on the red wound made him hiss. Focus on tonight, he thought. Think of the tourney. Think of Milkwood kicking ass. Don’t think about the money you can’t win back. Don’t think of the passport out of your clutches. Don’t think of Rob fucking you over—

  “Asshole,” he muttered, then smacked the dirty-white concrete building with the side of his hand. “Ow!” He shook it, feeling stupid for acting tougher than he was. Now, his ticket home was a freakshow. Sure, he was a wrecking ball in a fat suit, but could he fight? Damn it, he thought. I’m banking on someone I’d never really seen fight.

  Smack. His fist hit the concrete again. And he ignored the wimpy sound.

  So now I’m doomed, all because of daydreams of a PI and sluts and a bus ticket out of Troy. Those are all dead now. Even if we won, and that might be a huge if, the absolute best I can do is leave town, bringing all my fingers back to Troy. And Rob. And then the whole damn thing starts up again like a carrousel made of nightmares, one you can’t jump off of. That’s my prize?

  Smack!

  And if we lose, I’ve dug my own goddamn grave in the fringe, all thanks to believing that stupid, fat loser might have a chance of making a killer payday. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

  SMACK!

  He leaned against the wall, watching as the wounded knuckle shimmered with bright blood. He’d barely caught his breath when tires screeched down the driveway near the main drag with killer intent.

  A silver corvette shot down the driveway, nearly hovering above the asphalt. Malcolm pinned himself against the wall, hands up, as the tires screeched again and the car came to a hard but sudden stop. The driver’s door was an inch from his leg.

  “Shithead.” Malcolm said, as the window slowly rolled down. A strong, sweet chemical scent flew out like an invisible cloud, followed by annoying dance music blurted out in robotic beats.

  He flinched as her face unveiled itself as the window descended slow. Strawberry blond hair, long and thick, ran like waves in some weird debutant style Malcolm had seen on some of the higher-class arm candy Eva lusted after. Hazel eyes next, behind fine, thin glasses with dark frames against her pink skin.

  “Hello, pretty.”

  Voice like rough velvet, her smile was dark purple and sharp. Professional cover girl make up. Like she was ready for a close up. The window descended. A one-piece black dr
ess was tight on her thin frame, slinking only half way across her thighs, legs covered in rich dark stockings that gave the impression she’d just waded in cherry-stained chocolate, feet packed into shiny black heels. Small tits, though. Rob would hate that. “So, is that sourpuss Judge Sayers out of his grave yet? Starting the day right with his morning cup of lemons?”

  Malcolm shrugged, trying not to stare. “Hey, I’m just cutting through the parking lot, lady.” You didn’t talk about the circuit to civilians. And she didn’t look like the typical glitter or arm candy that coated the fighters. She was even out of Eva’s league.

  She turned down the music. “Lady. Mmm. I like that. And cut the shit, pretty. Your words say less than your handsome bod. Besides, the Judge feeds the young pretties who cut through here to Samson, but nice try.”

  Malcolm clenched his jaw. “Hey, I thought you were a civilian.” Stop looking at her, he told himself. Rob always said the arm candy always had something big and bad in reserve to sick on you once you didn’t play their way…but who the fuck was Rob to give advice to anyone?

  “Hardly, pretty.” She tapped her top canines with her tongue. “Little young to be making bets, though. You lose your Mommy?”

  He grunted. “No. They make exceptions when you’re as good as me.”

  Her smile was wet and growing. “Oh. I don’t doubt it. So maybe you can help me.” She took a long deep breath and adjusted her glasses. “I’m looking for someone from the circuit, but they seem to be harder to find than phoenix feathers in Babylon.”

  Chick is weird, he thought, hands squirming in his pouch, index finger killing. Stop staring, idiot! “Look, I’m running late.”

  “Something wrong with my face?”

  “What? No.”

  “Oh. Just that your eyes keep filtering away. Didn’t know I was that hideous.” She laughed, softly. Her playful smile scared him.

  “Look, I can’t help you.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I think you can.” She leaned closer to his pinned form. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. “You see, I’m not just some gore slut here for the tourney, or a gold-teeth digger. I’m looking to hire a bodyguard. And the circuit has a lot to offer.” She lowered her head and raised her eyes. “Know anyone looking for close protection work? I can pay crazy well.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve done enough stunt man work for one freaking day.” Malcolm crossed his arms, tucking his bleeding finger into his armpit.

  “Pretty, I bet I could work you over and turn you into crystal dynamite.” The techno-noise fizzed as she turned off the volume completely. “But you wouldn’t happen to know of someone in the circuit who would like to make some real, hard cash over the next while would you?” She took another long inhale. “Someone who could really take a bullet, just to protect a beautiful thing? Likes working nights? I’ve got a lot of bad boyfriends wanting me back, and I used to know a circuit player who would scare most of them livid. A powerhouse pretending to be a featherweight.” Her grin was sharp and eyes wide as if she were already imagining it. “Bet he’s the toughest things on two legs you’ve ever seen. Might look a little soft, but, as they say, looks can be deceiving.” She smiled, teeth apart.

  Malcolm’s knuckle throbbed. He shouldn’t. There was a catch, there had to be, this was too good to be true. Just like Milkwood. And that had got him throat deep in the shitter…no, no, no Rob had done that. Fuck, at this point, what did he have to lose? “Well, I might know the guy you’re looking for.”

  Her head snapped back in the car, eyes bright, acting like a rich kid on Christmas morning. “Really? Truly?”

  “And he doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Of course, of course. So, you’re his manager?”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “Then name his price.”

  “Twenty grand.” Might as well shoot for it, so they could have at least some cash to fall back on. “And I need it tonight. Before the tourney.”

  She blinked, smoky eye shadow thick enough to stop a knife. “And what do I get for such a killer price?”

  “The winner of the Fringe Tourney, and the toughest son of a bitch on two legs.”

  She giggled. “Sounds like you have my number. Oh, pretty, I likes you!” And the way she looked at him made his guts warm and his unit stiffen. “But I need him sooner rather than later.”

  “Tough,” Malcolm said. “He can work after the tourney.”

  “Honey, most people leave that last match like meat in a wood chipper. I need him fresh.”

  “He’ll be fresher than anything else you will find in this nowhere town.”

  She laughed. “You talk like a bad movie, I love, love, love it! But I never buy what I can’t see. I want him in an hour. Understand? Just for a check up so I know you’ve got what I want, and I can give you what you want.” She crossed her legs slowly, turning her full presence on him like a seven-hundred-degree oven with the door open. It was all he could do not to stare.

  “I…have to confirm it. With him. First.”

  She sighed, leaning out the window, staring mournfully at the ground. “I could get ten guys before then.”

  “Ten thugs without a chance in hell of leaving a bruise on my guy’s skin.”

  “Do you know what makes him so special?” Her tone had a barb that stuck into Malcolm and wouldn’t let go.

  “It ain’t his looks.”

  Slick laughter snapped out of her smile and her eyes were pure malice. “Oh, then I do believe you have what I need. Give me your hand.”

  Malcolm flinched. “Why?”

  She took a thick burgundy pen from the center consol. “Unless Goodwill gave you a cell phone with your ripe outfit, I better write down my number.”

  Malcolm gave her his right. She pulled it closer with her warm fingers, spider-like hands swirling the letters on his skin, the warmth of her touch as strong as the almost sickening sweetness radiating out of her car. She released him and his hand dropped to the side like his left. “So, Judge Sayers tried to make Samson another knuckle sandwich?”

  Malcolm put both hands back in the pouch.

  “Pretty, let me see.”

  “Why?”

  She reached out and took his hand from its hiding spot, and he was unsure of just how much he was resisting. “Still fresh. Lemony fresh.” Thin, warm hands with dark red nails massaged his wrist. “You stink like a dead cat’s asshole. But you play very close to the wire, Pretty. I like that.” She gave him a dirty smile. “Very much.” Slowly, she sucked his finger, purple lips pert around his digit. Pleasure flooded his brain and he swam in a warm, awkward moment, right hand gripping the top of her car to keep something steady. Her eyes were shut, and the dark, smoky makeup matched her rich lips as her tongue caressed his skin and bone, circling the knuckle as her throat clenched. Her dark lids finally opened and the sucking pressure eased as she pulled his finger out…slow.

  She exhaled. “Oh my, Pretty. You have a unique taste…”

  Malcolm took his hand back. “Thanks.”

  Sharpness bled through the dreamy moment on her face. “One hour.” Like a switch blade snapping out faster than a blink, she screeched off, did a psychotic u-turn, then shot past him again, honking, before pulling into the street to a chorus of screeches and honks.

  “This town is bat-shit psycho!” Malcolm said, nerves tingling. Cool winds caressed his wet knuckle. The blood was gone and the wound was closed. He flexed his fingers…and the pain was gone. He took one step and felt a warm, wet spot in his crotch, like those dreams he got from Rob’s dirty magazines.

  He slapped his head.

  But the picture of her stayed in his mind, a sweet, sucking smile that led to freedom, if Milkwood agreed. He ran down the driveway, reading the directions Milkwood gave, then looked at the number on his hand. And the name.

  “Lash.”

  He’d found his honey pot.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE CRACKED PHONE lay in its cradle, the history pamphlet lay on the floor, and the s
eething itch on Milkwood’s arm had gone from white to pink to red to rusty. It had sat in a slash of sun for the whole conversation. Pulling it out of harms way, he focused on the pain instead of the words, the precious, sharp, painful nuggets of wisdom Dad had sent rolling against his skull and cold brain. And just when he needed quiet, the motel had lit up with sound and smells. Pornography looped endlessly from the guy above him who had either jacked off so much he was in a coma or was enjoying the scintillating dialog of Ass Busters Nine. White noise from other TVs helped create some background noise to drown out the sounds of girls with fake boobs pretending to have orgasms with every thrust of a surgically superior ramrod, but all the advice Dad had given him chugged on with a sardonic voice, laughing at him while handing him the best way to sell an injury for real…

  Fists banged at the door. “Milkwood, I don’t remember that stupid secret knock. Just open the—”

  He kicked out with his legs and shot across the room, then pulled the door open slowly. Malcolm yawned, then shivered. Jesus, Milkwood thought. The kid looked worse than last night. Bags under his eyes dark enough to be skull sockets.

  Malcolm walked in. A sickly sweet stench trailed him.

  “Woah. You’re ripe. You been bathing in hot dogs and lemonade?”

  The kid’s face bunched. “Coming from a guy living in a well-smoked motel that stinks of blood and Clorox bleach, that’s pretty rich.”

  “Touché,” Milkwood said. “They but a bur under your saddle at the Emergency?”

  Malcolm walked around the room, pacing as if he had to go to the shitter but couldn’t find it. “Got no fucking idea what kind of day I’ve had.”

  “Your day was bad? Little man, do not get in a pissing match over who had the turd-end of the toilet in the past few hours, because I am the king of that castle.”

  The kid snorted, then shook his head. “Whatever.” He sat on the bed, rubbing a knuckle on his left hand. “I got you in the tournament.”

  Milkwood nodded. The future just got thicker.

  “What?” Malcolm snarled. “No ‘thanks, kid’?”