Blood and Sawdust

by Jason S Ridler

  “Thanks, kid.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “For a guy about to make ten grand, you could be a little more excited.”

  “For a kid about to make ten grand without having to go three rounds with street butchers, you could cut me some goddamn slack. All you did was drop off a lucky charm. Now I’ve got to make good against three killers, selling their moves like the jackasses can actually hurt me. Looks like you’re about to make ten grand the easy way, all things considered.”

  “I’m not making ten grand.”

  And Malcolm spilled out all that happened while Milkwood slept. A brother’s betrayal. The debt to the Judge. All the money they were going to grab with Milkwood’s performance of a lifetime…vanished. But there was no ease or relief when Malcolm stopped talking, and Milkwood figured a hell of a lot more happened between the lines. The way the kid massaged his knuckle made it clear that the kid had come close to being dog food for the Judge’s mutt.

  “I’ll understand if you want to bail,” Malcolm said. “I mean, I fucked it all up.”

  “Shit, kid,” Milkwood said. “I don’t have that much to pony up. Maybe a grand. Fifteen hundred, tops.”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t know what else to say, okay? I’m not used to negotiating wild cards with my fucking finger about to be torn to shreds.” He kicked the history pamphlet on to the old bloodstain in the carpet.

  “Easy,” said Milkwood, fingers running through his slick, greasy mane out of nervous habit. “Maybe we should just let this thing die, you know? Find a way to bolt the city and try something else somewhere the Judge doesn’t have one of his claws jammed into everyone’s pie.” His smile flashed and died. “It was a crazy scheme anyway. Probably wasn’t thinking straight, making career plans after being thumped on the head by a human sledge hammer.” He laughed, but the kid was still icy. “Hey. Just take my dough. Get the hell out of Kingston—”

  “They have my passport,” the kid said, low and slow. “And I am not staying in the fucking fringe. I have stuff to do.”

  “Like go home?”

  “Like mind your own fucking business.”

  “Watch that shit, kid,” Milkwood said with a snarl. “I’m not the one whose brother just screwed both of us, and my day has not been full of balloons and unicorns either.” Malcolm crossed his arms, grimaced, but finally nodded. Milkwood wiped his face with a long slow stroke. “So. Looks like we’re up shit creek with two broken paddles. Unless you have a trust fund to bank roll us, kid, because I am not going out to rob banks or anything.”

  “Better.” Malcolm breathed hard, eyes off on some point in space that was more compelling than the stained pink wallpaper. He was also working that knuckle like he was jacking off and it made Milkwood wonder just what the hell the Judge and maybe his sicko daughters had done to the poor kid, especially since he stank like garbage and lemonade. “I got us a honey pot.”

  Milkwood had the uneasy feeling of getting on the wrong bus and not having any more change for the right one. “Well, aren’t you a big shot. Some fan of the Troy Kid was hanging out at the Iron Horse, huh? You calling in some big-time favours?”

  He shook his head. “No. Something literally drove into my lap. Sort of. She was looking for you.” He faced Milkwood.

  Milkwood clamped his mouth shut, ignored the reflex to breathe. She?

  Malcolm crossed his arms and hugged himself. “She’ll bankroll us tonight. Twenty large. That means I got my debts clear, my fingers free, and we both walk out ten Gs fatter than we walk in with.”

  Milkwood swallowed a mouthful of nothing.

  “That money is payment,” Malcolm said. “For being a bodyguard, but you don’t have to do anything but go to an interview before the tourney. And, well, I think she knows you. Knows…what you are.”

  Milkwood nodded, then sat in the broken recliner next to his travel bag.

  Malcolm’s back hit the wall and the kid slid down to the carpet like a stain. Ten steps past exhausted, the kid kept talking, though his words were smooshting into each other like he was punch drunk. “About time my luck turned. God damn, if I think about everything that happened since last night, I can barely keep my shit together, you know?” He was hugging his knees now, like kids do. “But, it’s turning. Something good slapped me in the face for once and now we’re back in the game.” He exhaled, a burden running out of his guts. “Sweet, sweet, sweet.” Closing his eyes, his body relaxed head. “She just wants to meet you. In an hour. At her place. On the way we can talk strategy and tactics for your opponents and I need you to fill me on what you plan to do and how you’re going to do it and any…tricks you’ve got.”

  Malcolm gripped the recliners armrests. The word prickled his pride, but he tried to swallow the bitterness. “Tricks?”

  “Like turning into a bat or flying or, hell, I don’t know, all that Dracula shit.”

  “Right. Dracula shit.”

  “I don’t want any surprises.”

  “No surprises.” Dad’s voice blended with that of her, barbed notes singing in his head. He could almost feel her hands on him—

  “…and just how many are you?”

  “What?”

  “You know, how many…vampires.”

  Milkwood shrugged, trying to focus. “Oh. Never met any in the circuit.”

  “Good, because that might jinx everything. You fighting your own kind. Would hate to find one that could seriously kick your ass.”

  Like she did. He gagged, swallowed. “Me too.”

  “So, we better get to see her.” Malcolm pushed himself up the wall. “So…how do you know her? She a friend? A girlfriend?”

  He shook his head and the kid seemed relieved. Fuck, he thought. She’d gotten into Malcolm’s head like a wet dream come to life; it was painted on the kid’s eyeballs. Milkwood couldn’t blame him. He’d been the same. So was every heterosexual male with a heartbeat falling for her, ass over it, lust and stupidity marching arm and arm into the mouth of hell.

  His fingers tore into the flesh of the armrests. Puffy old stuffing crept out.

  “Milkwood?”

  “What?”

  “You’re shaking. And if you’re not careful you might tear that Lazy Boy to shreds.”

  He dug deep inside and calmed himself, slowed that dead heart. “Thanks. Sometimes happens. Better to stop and save that juice for…” He shut his eyes. “Oh shit, kid I can’t.”

  “Can’t what? Fly? Turn into mist and shit?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  Malcolm was up and screaming almost as loud as the porno actors approaching their climax. “No way, no fucking way! Do not go chickenshit on me now. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Milkwood stood, eyes open. “I’m sorry. Jesus H Christ, if he existed, knows I am sorry.”

  Shock dissolved to anger on Malcolm’s face. “Sorry? Sorry will not grow back my fingers! We don’t do this, I’m dead. And unlike you, I don’t come back to life or whatever. I stay dead. Real dead. The kind you don’t fuck around with.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand chickenshit when I smell it—”

  Milkwood pointed fast in the kid’s face, but Malcolm didn’t even flinch. “Don’t. Don’t call me that.”

  Malcolm grimaced, stepped forward, and swatted the finger away. “No. We are not doing this again. You don’t scare me. And if you touch me I don’t care how tough you are I will claw my way off the floor and rip off your head if you throw me to the fucking dogs.” He was hissing breath. “You grew a pair of balls yesterday. I don’t know where you lost them in this shit shack, but find them, strap them on, and let’s get on with it.”

  Milkwood stepped back. “You don’t get it—”

  Malcolm stepped forward. “Then tell me and make it quick!”

  The moaning and screaming upstairs hit a nasty crescendo, followed by three weak knocks on the door.

  Milkwood raised his finger to his lips, terrified about who was behind th
e door. How she looked. It sent his balls half a mile north into his guts. “Yeah?”

  “Francis?”

  Malcolm mouthed the name and Milkwood gave him a stink face that sent the kid a pace back, arms raised in consternation. “Cindy? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

  “Well, I think Brody left that autograph of yours in there and I better get it or I’ll never get to sleep.” She laughed, but something trembled underneath it.

  “Are you okay?” He approached the door.

  “Just tired. Please? I won’t be a second.”

  Milkwood sighed. “Fine. Hold on.” He flicked the dead bolt.

  The door crashed inside, smacking him hard enough on the face to send him stumbling on his ass. Freight trains were gentler.

  Cindy landed beside him. A glistening hole was wet in her neck. Eyes wide and wild, she gulped air. “Francis…he made me…help me…Brody.”

  The door slammed shut. Standing tall above him was a beefy looking asshole with blood all over his pretty face, holding a bo staff in his hand.

  “Who the fuck are you, Donatello the Ninja Turtle?” Milkwood said.

  “Nah,” said the prick. “Royce. And I got news for you.” His accent was New York City jackass, his eyes unnaturally redder than the hole in Cindy’s neck, knuckles rippling with dead strength as he twisted the staff. “The job for Lash’s bodyguard? It’s taken.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE GRIZZLY VIEW made Malcolm wince.

  “Cindy?” Milkwood said, cradling the woman on the floor. But the wound…it was like a car accident punched her neck. Malcolm had seen some sick shit in the circuit. But this was different. Like a sick animal playing with its prey. The life voided her eyes as Milkwood put her down.

  The thug Royce cackled. “Afraid I can’t really leave witnesses.”

  Milkwood laid her down, exhaling hard and bitter. “You’re one of her bitches.”

  Royce’s eyes were crystal clear. “Watch it now. You’re talking about my lady Lash.” He was built to fight. The army jacket barely contained his thick muscle. Hands callused from punching, not living hand to mouth on a concrete bed. Unlike Milkwood, Royce had obviously been a tough son of a bitch before “everything goes frozen” as Milkwood said. And he’d trailed Malcolm through the city like a cat chasing a blind mouse. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Malcolm thought. How could I have missed being followed by a thug? Because I’d been massaging my finger and thinking of Lash’s sweet hot lips working me over. That’s why.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Get out,” Malcolm said.

  Royce smirked. “Cute, but do I look like I take orders from the lowest shit on the food chain?” The drifter tapped his staff on the ground. “Hey, tons of fun. She’s gone. Pay attention.”

  Milkwood shut the dead girl’s eyelids, like in a movie. “I’m only going to ask this once. Where’s her son?”

  The thug smiled, eyes a coppery red. “Very threatening but I also don’t take orders from the Pillsbury dough boy. I cannot believe Lash thinks you’re her best, the man to beat. She must be pulling my goddamn chain. You couldn’t babysit a cockroach, let alone guard a fine body like hers.”

  Milkwood spoke low, patting the women’s head. “Congrats, the job’s yours. Now fuck off.”

  “What?” Malcolm said. “We need that job!”

  Milkwood lay the women down, head hung in defeat. “Take it and go. You win. Just leave, and don’t hurt the kid.”

  “No!” Malcolm shouted. “It’s our only chance.”

  “Sorry,” Royce said. “Can’t leave here without bringing proof back to Lash that she needs a hero not a chubby zero. And I’m saving these kids for dinner, just in case you get uppity and think of throwing a fit.”

  “God, you talk worse than a comic book,” Malcolm said.

  Royce snarled, and Malcolm zipped it. “Okay, fat ass,” Royce said, “I’m going to need your head. Lash likes her proof red and meaty.”

  Milkwood lay the woman down then snickered, then laughed. It was an awful and eerie cackle both high and low.

  “What the fuck’s so funny, piggy?” said Royce, hardening his stance and preparing his staff for some skull cracking. “Can’t you smell the slaughterhouse calling?”

  “Yes, ‘hero,’ ” Milkwood said, smiling until his teeth grew wide and sharp and his eyes flared. “Indeed I can.”

  Milkwood charged into Royce so fast he’d almost slipped out of quicksand time, like a concrete wave that doubled in strength and crashed into the wall. Dirty white hand locked on the guy’s throat before the drifter rolled them into the corner of the room. Outside, TVs cranked up their porno soundtracks and heavy metal thunder to mask the sound of wreckage.

  Malcolm’s guts dropped into his sneakers. Despite Milkwood’s hurricane movement, Royce was pulling off another Kudor, but the blows were three times as fast, the staff connecting like a homerun each hit. A hard crack against Milkwood’s head sent blood across the room in clouds and Malcolm’s heartbeat slowed as Milkwood couldn’t seem to get his legs out from under him. His head was turning to hamburger again, and the blood around them was bright, but not as shiny as last night.

  Move, Malcolm told himself. He’s getting thrashed and if he dies you die, too. Fight!

  Royce tossed Milkwood onto the bed with one arm. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, breathlessly. “I’ve trained white belts with better combat sense. I must have the wrong guy. Lash spoke of you like a prized pig.” He snapped his staff in half across his knee so he had two jagged stakes. “All I got here is a hog’s ass.” He pounced—

  —straight into a haymaker, shot like a comet, that sent him crashing into the TV. Glass covered the dead woman, and a static hiss filled the air. Sparks snapped into and out of existence. Milkwood rolled to his belly and onto his feet with an inhuman swirl, his face a busted and angry stain. He wiped away the blood in his eyes right before the drifter shot again, straight from the floor, with a goring shoulder tackle, pinning him against the wall. Feet on the bed, he twisted and jammed one of the stakes straight into Milkwood’s neck.

  “No!”

  Time snapped back.

  Malcolm ran up the soft cushion of the bed, legs like molasses, mind screaming, pen in his fist. He jammed it into the drifter’s neck before being tossed on a sea of broken glass by the dead woman.

  Royce growled. “Young blood,” he pointed the other stake as Milkwood dropped to his knees, blood gushing from the stake in his neck. “You may not be as sweet as that toddler, but you’ll get the sticky taste of this fat bitch from my teeth.”

  Malcolm thrashed his legs, kicking himself away, but his hands dug into the glass and his nerves froze. Then he stopped. Behind Royce, a fat shadow rose, a stake still thudded into its neck. Royce pulled a knife the size of Malcolm’s forearm from an inside pocket. “Time for some tender morsels. I think I’ll start with your eyes. Never tasted green ones before.” Spit dripped from Royce’s teeth before he flinched at the realization that Milkwood was neither down nor out for the count.

  A tiny right cross drilled Royce’s chin like a hammer, sending him spinning and crashing to Malcolm’s feet.

  Milkwood pounced on Royce’s back, tearing his arm so high up his back it contorted like a twisted coat hanger.

  Snap.

  The knife dropped to the broken shards. Milkwood, the stake in his neck only a hand span away from Malcolm’s forehead, pressed Royce’s face in the glass, rubbing it back and forth until the carpet was stained thick. Then, with two swift and awful movements, Milkwood tore the stake from his neck and drove it hard between Royce’s massive shoulder blades. As the stake cut through the green jacket, right above the drifter’s heart, Milkwood’s eyes burned like wild cigarette cherries in the dark, and he gurgled words Malcolm could not understand.

  The whole body screeched and twitched under Milkwood before hissing out in a puff of vile white smoke that swam in the air, a distorted, hideous apparition that diss
ipated as Milkwood seethed red breath and dissolved it. Milkwood’s sank into the jacket, rolled himself back, and stood, his left hand holding his dark red neck.

  “Are you okay?” Malcolm said, eyes still dazed and wild and finding it hard to focus.

  Milkwood, shot him a red stare, shook his head, and then hefted the girl over his shoulder and headed to the bathroom. He dropped his hand. The gash was darker red, still dripping.

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm said. “I didn’t know he was following me. Is she a friend?”

  Milkwood hit the bathroom light. The word gurgled out, thick and meaty. “Was.”

  Turn it around, man, turn it around. “But see? You were better than him. You are the best man for the job. I don’t doubt it. You could take the tourney. Take the job. You can do whatever you want.”

  “Malcolm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Milkwood closed the door without looking back. The shower ran. The fan was on. But sounds came from the bathroom that made Malcolm take steps back. The strangeness of the past five minutes swirled in dizzying waves until his back hit the wall.

  He’d just seen two…vampires go at it, red in tooth and claw, and saw one turn to smoke. And a woman dead. Eaten? Oh god, what bloody horror show…and all that was left of Royce was his stained clothes, a knife, and the bloody remains of a staff.

  Malcolm slapped himself. Focus, focus, focus!

  Hands like bullets, Malcolm rifled through the clothes, hoping this dipshit had money. Maybe enough that he wouldn’t need Lash. Ha. Right. She probably picked him up at some Salvation Army dojo. She must have a thing for undead pit fighters. God, how many vampires were there? Where the hell did they all come from? Malcolm had assumed that Milkwood was unique, that’s why Lash wanted him, knew him somehow, but this staff-wielding asshole? Where did he come from?

  Questions littered his mind and he kept his hands moving just so his head would stay on straight and the smell wouldn’t kill him. The army jacket had more pockets than a dozen kangaroos, but most of it was lint and breath-mints. The wallet had two hundred bucks in greenbacks. No ID. Just a picture of him in some Tae Kwon Do outfit, posing as Johnny Bad Ass, USA, back when he could get a tan from more than moonlight. There was a nightclub card, from a joint in NYC called Bathroy Retreat. On the back was the name “Lash” and a room number.