Everyone took their perches for the slaughter, and Malcolm scratched his neck. “We’ll do the job after the tourney tonight.”
“Fab,” she said, leaning against the bar, kicking some peanuts into the crowd. “If he survives.”
“He will. Wouldn’t be good to you if he didn’t.”
“I suppose.” She tucked the umbrella into her trashy red wig, sucked at her straw, lips pert. “Ahh. But if my baby doesn’t perform like a stallion, well, I think it would be safe to say you would renege on him being the best of the best. Right?”
Malcolm dug his nail into his sore knuckle, trying not to remember the feel of her soft, warm mouth massaging it. “He’ll win.”
“Maybe, Pretty.” And he heard the tone Milkwood had mentioned, the condescending trail left in the wake of her words. Her head was slowly bobbing as if she was hammered. “But given my baby’s disdain for me, I couldn’t count on him doing the right thing anymore than you could bank on me being a good daddy’s girl…” her eyes hazed before zoning in on contender’s alley. “So I had to get a spare.”
Malcolm glared. “Spare?”
Her head teetered as she rubbed her breasts, calling attention to herself. “God, it’s a rush. Beat my own record for siring in a day. But sweet merciful me, it leaves you one drunk momma.”
Malcolm thought of the empty sacks of clothing on her hotel room floor. “None of your…the ones at the hotel? None of them made it.”
“Hmm? Oh, that litter? I left them for Dizzy.” She exhaled hard, but the word forced Malcolm into a cold sweat in a dank room. “I knew they couldn’t handle him. They were just alpha mutts with trust funds and black belts. No, I needed a real spare.” She smiled, straw between her perfect, white teeth. “Something nasty.”
“First up,” said the Klaxon. “The Human Battering Ram, from Buffalo Chips, Nebraska, and the winner of the Busted Knuckles rookie of the year. TOMKO!”
Tomko’s massive head emerged above the smoky glass of contender’s alley, black goatee sharp above the turret neck. The three-hundred-pound monster turned to face the crowd, the lettuce and grease staining the CHICK MAGNET T-shirt featuring a man with a horseshoe magnet for a cock, with a blond and a redhead impaled on each end. The shirt stretched across a barrel chest and beer gut, and his thick-cut arms ended in massive, meat-pounder fists.
Then, a slight red glare in his eyes.
Shit, shit shit. “He’s…one of you?”
Lash blew bubbles in the glass, smiling, then laughed. “Let’s see if lard throat can earn his keep.”
Malcolm pushed through the crowd, but they were too thick. “Hey!” he shouted. “Milkwood! Tomko’s a Dracula!”
But the Klaxon drowned him out. “His opponent, from parts unknown…is he a human punching bag or body bag? No one knows for sure!” A round of laughter. “The original Pillsbury Dough Boy. Milkwood!”
Malcolm’s screams drowned in the wild chants, arms raised with fingers out, boos that mutated into a funeral march theme as Milkwood walked slow but steady to the cage, looking the same as he had yesterday when Kudor had wailed on him. His whole face was like a rotten fruit basket.
Malcolm shoved his way forward. There was no way out. The previous owner of the army jacket was a good smash-mouth fighter, maybe even ex-military given how he handled the broken stick…but Tomko was a beast to begin with. He’d tear off arms and beat Milkwood’s head like a snare drum for shit and giggles.
Milkwood would have to kill him. But how could he? There was nothing to shove in his chest. Christ, what would they do to each other?
Malcolm pushed hard against the packed house, but got a head full of elbows and kicked shins for his trouble. He scurried back to the bar and hoped on the edge next to Lash. “You’re shooting dirty pool,” he said.
Lash was slowly and poorly putting on lipstick. “Being rich has its privileges, Pretty.”
“Thought maybe your Daddy would turn off the trust fund when you decided to go all gothy?”
She puckered, then grabbed her glass. She stirred the ice back and forth. “Doing some homework, I see. Thankfully, I have my own sources of tender.”
“Then why not just hire both, at the end of the tourney?”
With a snap of her arm, she tossed the drink into the crowd, then looked at him with doe eyes of innocence as the crowd looked back with a dozen sets of angry eyes. “Now what fun would that be? You say my first-born is king of the ring. Time for you to eat your words or my money. Now, Pretty, on with the show. This is it.”
Tomko entered the cage and people were tossing in coins that made the cage shake, some landing in the white sawdust on the ground, some sticking to his skin. It was an old tradition for big nights. After asking around, Eva told him it went back to the Civil War, when soldiers would pound each other in the lull between battles, the regiment or whatever tossing coins into the ring, the winners getting as many as they could snatch. Now, people just liked the sight of sparkling dimes and quarters, collecting the bloodstained coins for private weirdo collections, selling them for more than they were worth.
Freaks, Malcolm thought, trying not to watch Lash stroking her one leg with the other, head still rolling like a drunk gal being dragged to a back room for a rough time, coke laugh trailing the clack of her shaky heels.
Tomko stomped around the ring, leaving size-fifteen treads in his wake, then took off his shades. His eyes were glazed. Just like the kung fu corpse who had owned the army jacket. Just like Lash.
Milkwood followed, and a rain of pennies filled the air like brown metal bugs. Worst kind of insult to a fighter. They stuck to his cheek and neck. He wiped them off with a casual disregard as if they were flies, his ruined face like an open sore.
The ref, wearing a Maple Leaf’s hockey jersey, walked in and searched them as soft dust rose from his scuffed black converse. “Okay,” Malcolm said. “Who are we protecting you from? Bullshit me and we walk. We will not bring brass knuckles to a gunfight. Who is this Dizzy?”
Lash arched her back, head to one side. “He is the last in a string of body snatchers I’ve been dodging.”
“Sent by Daddy Ashmolean?”
She snorted. “If you must know. Yes. Poppa’s tried everything. Ex soldiers. Supposed holy men. And a rather insane woman who thought she was Joan of Arc.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, goodness did she taste good. But after a decade, he got desperate. Apparently, he thinks I’m an embarrassment. So he sent something far worse than a retired Marine or witch doctor dressed like Aleister Crowley. Something that wouldn’t rest until it grabbed what you’re trying not to look at.”
“Stop dancing around the subject.”
“Oh, I think you like my dancing,” she lifted her leg against the other. “A leg man, for sure, scared to bring your eyes to stare at my tits.” Her laughter made him weak. “Hope you grow a pair of balls one day, Pretty. I think you’ll be a real lady killer.”
“Stick to the subject. This Dizzy…is he like you and Milkwood?”
She shot her knee down, holding herself on the bar with arms behind her. “Worse. Do you like bedtime stories, Pretty?” Conceit dripped from her purple grin.
Malcolm clamped his jaw as the ref patted down Tomko.
“There are few remnants of the good old days of monsters and mayhem wondering the world, thanks to my family and their ilk. Just castoffs and throwaways. Little shits compared to the grand nightmares of yesteryear.”
The ref checked Tomko’s boots.
“One of those remnants still wandering the world was a gallows bird named Dizzy Colt. An eighteenth century creature, born of a puritan mother and a lesser demon. You name it and Dizzy either killed, fucked, or ate it, including his Momma.” She laughed.
Malcolm saw tobacco stains against a bathroom wall.
“But Dizzy didn’t eat just anyone. He craved the remnants of the fantastic. So long as he ate their hearts, he remained imperishable. Lasted about two hundred years. But by the twentieth century,
he was starving, weak, and was chased into the west by his enemies. There, he found a wounded crow at the edge of the world, a little god of fate who had been shot and could no longer fly.”
The fake sadness in her voice irritated Malcolm.
“Dizzy swallowed the birdy whole like a giant chicken nugget.”
The ref spoke solemn words to each contender before he left the ring.
“But little gods have their own agenda. It ate Dizzy’s black heart, and nestled in the hole where it had been.”
“That when your family caught him?”
She nodded, still swirling the ice.
“When did they release him?”
She looked up at the rafters. “Oh, five years ago, from what I’ve gathered. He went on a bit of a bender before Daddy persuaded him to actually look for me.” Her eyes focused on him. “Pretty? You okay?”
Five years. It was him. The grey-faced man. He knew it. “Fine. Just fine.”
“Did I say something to upset you?”
The revelation was machine-gunning his concentration: her father had released that fucker into the world…and it had eaten…“Oh god.” He covered his mouth.
She embraced him, softly, her body warm and still smelling majestic. “Shhh. Take a moment. There there.” She released him. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”
He shook his head. “We’ll take the job.” He didn’t need a PI. He just needed Lash. And that son of a bitch would come to him.
She caressed his face, green eyes burrowing into his. “My hero. Now, watch the fight, Pretty. If my baby wins, you’ll get your chance with Dizzy.”
* * *
An old bell clanged tight and tinny before Tomko stumbled toward Milkwood, laughing to himself as they circled each other. Milkwood, a fistful of pennies stuck to his rotting face, raised his hands, made two tiny fists, and spat a dark dollop into the sawdust before a weak right jab shot out and missed.
That’s it, Milkwood thought. I’m pathetic, no chance in hell, just keep eating it up—
A sequence of hard jabs ran out of Tomko so fast the only thing Milkwood could do was block them with his face. Each one was harder than the last and soon the world went wet and red. A haymaker connected like a battering ram and spun him to the chain walls which he grabbed, looking out to the sea of screaming faces, all teeth and hate.
Elbows rained on his neck until his face was swallowing sawdust.
Ow, he thought. This ain’t going well. He heard the grunt of Tomko leaning down to grab him and he munched a large mound of sawdust…just like dad with the chalk…and when the big man pulled up his face for another set of pounding, Milkwood blew it all out into his eyes—
Red eyes.
It bought him a slight reprieve.
As Tomko pulled the dust from his face, Milkwood’s heart trembled. She did this. She did this to him.
Red eyes appeared from the sawdust. Milkwood dodged another blow. Another. Slimy black hair spinning like a weird sea creature, Milkwood swam away from every shot. Sawdust rose with the grind of their sneakers. Tomko’s straight rights and swings could shot-put anvils. One sent ripples through the cage like electric shock. But Milkwood was nowhere to connect.
The crowd was livid, screaming “Die-Freakshow-Die! Die-Freakshow-Die!”
Fuck selling, Milkwood thought. Just stay alive!
Guard up, Milkwood saw the hulking Tomko take a few steps back, laugh, and then throw another haymaker—
Milkwood ducked and sprung a hammering little fist at Tomko’s knee. The satisfying crunch was only mired by the fact that the tank of a man would not scream. Gasps filled the air, and the giant shook before stumbling back on one leg.
Like a pistol shot, Milkwood drove his shoulder into Tomko’s cement gut, and drilled his back into the sawdust, then dropped punches and elbows, watching the red bleed into Tomko’s sawdust face. Blood sprayed until the ref pulled Milkwood off to start a ten count.
He’s down, Milkwood knew. But not out. I can’t stake him without driving my hand through his chest…but can I even do that without getting disqualified? Fuck—
At five, Tomko stood, and snapped his knee back in place with a crunch Milkwood could feel. Tomko’s face was a mirror, and Milkwood was glad as hell there weren’t more “Draculas” like him in the world. A shit-eating grin graced Tomko, arm hidden behind him. “My turn, shit heel.”
It shot out like a arrow: a fist drilled Milkwood so hard he spun against the cage. Gripping it with dirty white fingers, he pulled himself away before Tomko’s fist tore through the chains, arm shredding as he ripped it out, spraying the cage-side seats to the squeals of arm candy and pimps with nice threads, while the crankers screamed for more. Red lights danced on the fighter’s skin. Milkwood had stumbled to one knee before the shocking pain of an anvil strike cracked across the back of his skull before the ground smacked his jaw.
“Count!” Tomko yelled at the ref, who snapped his hand back and forth, one-two—
Milkwood’s eyes opened. And the world was red. With one hand he pulled himself up the cage, tore off a strip, and slashed an arc across Tomko’s belly, which ran red, heavy, and fast into the darkening dust. Tomko reflexively gripped his belly and Milkwood stomped Tomko’s other kneecap out of joint. The big man stumbled again, hand on his thigh, while Milkwood exhaled sawdust. Through it, he found Malcolm’s eyes. The kid was terrified, mouthing, “He’s a Dracula”—
Beside him was Larissa.
Smiling.
She winked and blew him a kiss.
The Ref was still counting, but Milkwood turned and drove his palm into Tomko’s nose, making the ugly face pucker red. Milkwood wiped his forearm across his face, then yanked Tomko’s right arm in an arm bar, cracked it in half so it was a zigzag. The other one he just stomped until it broke. All the while the ref is screaming to Tomko to tap, but the giant just screamed, “You’re dead! You’re dead when I stand!” His eyes were red, flaring.
Milkwood growled. “I’m already dead, you stupid motherfucker.” He drilled his heel into Tomko’s face and he landed on his back. Milkwood stood over him, Tomko moving like some retarded baby, eyes raging red and full of hate.
“You’re dead, shit heel! I’ll be back on my feet in a second! And you’re dead, and the kid you’re babysitting, dead, and—” Milkwood drove both hands into the red sockets, and tore out the screaming eyes with a wet, tight grip.
The crowd shared a sickening groan, but the ref screamed for the bell and three tight and tinny blasts of a horn ended the match to the groan of the crowd. Milkwood raised the eyes, stared at Lash.
Her smile was huge.
He dumped the orbs in the sawdust while Tomko thrashed in the sawdust. The ref reluctantly took Milkwood’s dripping hand and raised it, Klaxon voice screeching out “Winner, by blinding…Milkwood!”
* * *
“Fuck Yeah!” Malcolm punched the air as the confused and grumbling crowd looked at him, a legion of muscle heads grabbing the wailing Tomko and shoving him out into the back for either a dumpster grave or, if he won’t shut up, a mercy killing. Good luck, Malcolm thought. “So, Lash,” he said. “How did he do?”
She licked her lips. “He’s even more savage than I had hoped.”
Malcolm did not like the way she was looking at Milkwood. As if he was the sole thing in her universe. The crowd was livid and grumbling and rethinking their next bets until Milkwood started laughing, thick and insane, before smacking the sawdust with his face.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
AS QUICKSAND TIME DISINTEGRATED within the roar of the crowd, Malcolm exhaled with jagged breaths. That was too close.
Two coolers in tank tops and black jeans helped Milkwood to his feet. But he looked worse than when he’d hit the floor. Half his face was crusted with sawdust, the other was like someone had left squash out to rot all summer.
“I need to talk to him,” Malcolm said, jumping off the bar. “You didn’t…make any more Draculas, did you?”
S
he crossed her heart. “Hope to die.”
“Fine. Don’t run off.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, Pretty,” Lash said, sliding off the bar’s edge with a liquid grace but landing unsteady. “These heels look fabulous but they aren’t made for running. Please tell my Baby congratulations.” She giggled.
Malcolm ran through the crowd as they parted before Milkwood’s bouncy steps, laughing to himself as he wiped red fingers on his chest.
“You did it!” Malcolm said.
Milkwood nodded.
“You all right?”
“Me, Kid? Never fucking better. Just went one round with a blood-sucking maniac.”
“You knew?”
Milkwood cackled, gripping his ribs. “The flaming eyes gave it away. Get it? Eyes? Give it away?”
“Har har. Man, you look like hammered shit. You okay?”
Milkwood raised his tubby arms. “King of the world ma, and worth every penny.” He flicked the pennies stuck to his arm into the crowd. “I saw your date.” He cocked his head. “I take it she’s bankrolling now?”
Malcolm nodded.
“After sending in another one of her brood to tear me apart?”
“I didn’t know that until after!” The crowd was snarling loud at the match. Grunts, shoves, and malicious looks were scattering across the bar so hard you could feel it an inch into your skull. “She wanted to see you in action,” Malcolm said. It seemed like the right thing to say. Milkwood sucked back the blood in his mouth and swallowed. “I say we stick with the plan. Take her money. Then—”
“Then what?”
Malcolm gritted his teeth. “I need a favour.”
Milkwood laughed so hard the blood shook from his mouth. “Favour? I’m putting my face in three different meat grinders for you. Anything else, your majesty?”
“The face, the thing in the bathroom. The thing that’s following her. We need to kill it.”
Gunfire hushed the room. Next to the bar, two betters lay dead by a Notebook Man’s feet. Red lights swam across the faceless crowd.
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