Plantation of Chrome

by R. J. Coulson

  “You did good, Paul,” said Stone.

  “He was nothing, Stone. Nothing! I could have had him in round three, but you know? What the hell a match would it have been then, right?”

  “Right, but nonetheless, you did good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Look, I just want to make sure that--”

  “Why are you probing me like this, Stone? You don’t think I’m okay? You think I’ll break down and cry?” Messenger's voice was shaking, his breathing still heavy from the fighting.

  “I was just worried,” said Stone. “Some of the others haven’t had it easy, and I didn’t want to mess with you before the fight.”

  “Look, Stone, I’m gonna go and wash another man’s blood off of me, and then we'll talk.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You better spend your time finding some more worthy opponents instead. I’m tired of these lowlife assholes that’ve been fighting for two years and think they’ll make it.”

  Messenger walked away, towards the locker room. The crowd was slowly dispersing around the ring, around Stone, some of them staying to do business with Eckleburg, who’d set up a betting registry. Among the greedy hoards, Clayborne came out to shake Stone’s hand.

  “I’m sorry I was so pressuring about the whole razor thing,” said Stone. He felt it was in its right place to apologize, now that he saw Clayborne’s face. He looked as if someone had told him that he was about to die.

  “Don’t think of it right now,” he said. “I’m not. I’ll try to see if we can get a rematch up and going anytime during the spring.” Clayborne’s eyes were misty as he spoke, all empty of attention. “Stone,” he said, his conviction reinvigorated. “I heard this morning that Lawrence Bishop was found dead in his mansion.” He swallowed. “I--”

  “No,” said Stone. “I promise, it has nothing to do with what happened to his nephew and your son. We had nothing to do with it.”

  “Okay,” muttered Clayborne, nodding his head as if trying to reassure himself. “Okay. I guess we'll see each other at the rematch, then.”

  “That sounds good,” said Stone. He was quick to finish the uncomfortable conversation and send the man on his way. They shook hands once more, and Clayborne walked back towards the crowd where he disappeared among the other men.

  As the late afternoon turned to evening, Stone was alone in the office. He’d hoped to talk to everyone about the night before, but everyone had gone home. He stared at the alley again, on all the metal rods and slabs, thinking how different they would look tomorrow, in the light. He looked at Eckleburg’s side of the desk, where all the paperwork for the day had been categorized into neat stacks. They’d made it through another day. They’d made money another day, and that was enough for now.

  The longer Stone stayed in the office, and the more he became aware of his own solitude, the more desperate he felt, the more restless. He wasn’t sure what he could do to scrape the feeling off his skin, other than ultimately leave, change the scenery that had grown around him all day. He got up and picked up his coat from De Gracy’s chair, and as he opened the door to leave, he heard a voice coming from inside the main hall. It was almost like someone was chanting. He sneaked to the end of the hallway and peeked inside. Grundy was standing in the middle of the boxing ring, his hands specked with the blood from the fight that he hadn't seen. He was walking around the ring with his chest held high, looking out at an imagined audience.

  “This is the last of the times,” said Grundy with the entire splendor of his baritone voice. He enunciated the words in a narrative that one would expect from God himself. Stone stayed hidden.

  “This is the last of the times,” repeated Grundy. “This is the time when the soldier leaps from the air and into the puddle of an untested faith, and it is now that the weight on his shoulder is determined, not by those he drags onto the field, but by those that rest above, nestled in the far away clouds of an ancient row of columns. It is here that civilization stands, and if they don’t continue to deal in the business of fools, they will soon know that war is not an art of the heavens, but an art of the lowliest streets of hell, and it is truly here that the soldiers are cast and molded like figurines of God.” Grundy was quiet for a bit. He walked to one corner of the ring, letting his gaze flow out across the empty room. Stone could clearly see the heavy burns and scars on Grundy's dark face, like a tumor pulling at his skin.

  “The black and white sons are cast upon these fires, and it is with them that we ultimately gain nothing but filled caskets and a bitter taste of freedom, the sweetness of which has long since been deprived by the lowliest of lows; the human’s need to impose freedom on other humans.”

  It was then that Stone stepped into the main hall, and when Grundy saw him, he crouched down in a fit of embarrassment, broom in hand, eyes down.

  “Grundy, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. I’m not quite done here yet. It was quite a fight, wasn’t it?”

  “It was, it was... But Paul won.”

  “Of course he did. He’s strong, Paul. Looks weak, but isn’t.”

  “I guess that’s true strength, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is, Mr. Stone,” he said, sweeping a broom up and down the rough canvas of the boxing ring. The blood was foaming with an edge of white soap. “You said you wanted to speak to me? Earlier today.”

  “I did, but I’m no longer sure about what. I was kinda deluded for a moment, I think, imagining that I could get you to fight for us once in a while.”

  Grundy stopped scrubbing.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t do that, I’m sorry.”

  “I know you don't like violence,” said Stone.

  “No, it’s not really the violence that scares me.”

  “What is then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I understand,” said Stone. “I had originally figured that I’d have to be more persuasive, but I think I persuaded myself in the end instead.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Stone. Thank you.”

  Stone stepped back a bit. With Grundy standing up before him, rising slowly like the construction of a monument, Stone saw his face and wondered why he had even asked his question. It was him who now felt a rush of embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure why I came to you with this.”

  “Maybe you wanted to know something else?”

  “I perfectly well knew that you wouldn’t fight. I asked you, all those years ago.”

  “Maybe something inside of you doesn’t feel satisfied with the answer I gave you?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Mmh, I think so.” Grundy laughed, showing off his giant set of teeth. “You can be a funny man, Mr. Stone. You have a fun way of being serious. One moment you’re serious on the outside, but the next you’re serious on the inside, and it’s almost like you forget being serious on the outside as well.”

  “Yeah? I never thought of that.”

  “Of course not. A woman could make you aware of that, yes sir. Much more than I can, you’ll see one day.”

  Stone laughed. “Well, I haven’t seen it yet. And there's been women.”

  “Not the right woman, then.”

  Stone smiled. “Goodnight, Grundy,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Stone.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Pit seemed completely static from the other side of the road where the two men were standing. They gazed at the front entrance of the Pit, impatience glimmering in their eyes. One was taller than the other, the shadow of his fedora almost reaching the far end of the street.

  “Why’d you want us out here?” asked the shorter of the two, chewing straw in-between syllables. He rubbed his fingers around his mouth, coughed. “I mean, Stone’s never even sold as much as a knife.” He had a thick, Nordic accent.

  “I just wanted to see if there’d been any c
hanges to the Pit,” said the other, fidgeting with a piece of glowing silver around his neck.

  “People rushing in, people rushing out, all to see that kid beat up Clayborne’s kid. It looks the same to me.”

  “I just find it weird, that’s all. The way Bishop went, you know? It wasn’t any ordinary job.”

  “I get that, but Stone and the lot haven’t been outside the Pit for almost four years now. I think they’re doing pretty good in there.”

  “I know, and that’s what bugs me. If I was caught in that shithole, fighting for my paycheck each and every day, I’d want to get out too, make it easier for myself. I know what De Gracy's like, and he ain’t the kind to keep his legs tight like this. Something’s not right. He's bound to spread soon.”

  “You really think they’d do something like what happened to Bishop?”

  The tall man spat on the road, just before a car rushed by.

  “I guess that's what we're here to find out. We just have to keep a close watch of each of them. God knows the police won't.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Only yesterday. They still think the kids have been kidnapped. Like kids can’t be killed or something.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll make sure to watch them. Now, if they did it, and they wanna make something out of it, they’ll come out soon. We’ll see Tommies flying out of the Pit within a month, and then we’ll know it was them.”

  “Maybe they’re just opportunists, like you said.”

  “Well, who isn’t? But there’s a difference in grabbing opportunities, and making your own. Björn, you stay here a while.”

  “What, why?”

  “I’ve got some other business across town.”

  “But nothing’s happening tonight.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just stay here. It’s a big city. No use in both of us staying in the same street.”

  And with that, the two shadows separated.

  CHAPTER 4

  The boxing ring was crowded all around, the two boxers exhibiting an extraordinarily boring match. Most of the time they were just kiting around each other, only planting a blow when they felt sure the other fighter wouldn't block it. Eckleburg was commanding the bell as usual. He kept the mallet close to the bell’s surface, his gaze locked to the pocket watch in his hand. Occasionally he’d glance at the actual fighting, but only briefly, as if he merely wanted to assure himself that the fighting was still going on, giving him something to stop and interfere with. It was one of the standard matches that they held a couple of times a week, and Eckleburg didn’t feel very much obliged to keep the rounds close to three minutes each. He looked around the crowd sometimes after the three minutes had passed, to see if someone would look at the bell, if someone would have the sensibility or the sense of time to remind him that he was running late, but no one ever did. They were hypnotized by the action, willing to let the round go into several minutes of overtime, hours even, days. Time was a dead concept to them, now that they were outside the ring, not inside it.

  Eckleburg struck the bell to end the round, and the two fighters slumped into their corners, relieved for a few moments of respite. Eckleburg needed nothing more than to see them rest. He’d focus on each of the fighters, blessing their rest with the mercy that he, The Bell Master, had given them. He relished in the break that he’d given man, giving them a chance to reflect not only on each other, but on their lives as well; thoughts that would someday lead them away from the boxing ring and into a better life. Eckleburg smiled, content that he had given these petty men the chance to reconcile with their lives. He made a subtle cross across his chest, making sure that no one in the audience saw it. And then, when he’d given them their respite, their baptism, he’d resume the fight once more by slamming the bell with ferocious thunder.

  “Which one of them won?” asked Stone. He’d just come through the door, and Eckleburg was piling up some notes across the width of the table. A young boy was sitting by his side, touching the edge of each stack of papers. He pushed them out of order, but only so little that even Eckleburg couldn’t notice.

  “The big one,” said Eckleburg. “The one with the big ears and the--”

  “Rogers?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. He won. KO in the eighth round. We should put him against Messenger. They’d do well against each other.”

  “Messenger would knock him out within the second round,” said Stone. “Why’s the kid here?”

  Eckleburg looked at the boy as if wondering the same question himself.

  “Gretchen had some work at the church today, so he would be alone if I didn’t bring him.” Eckleburg looked at Stone, suddenly jittering, nervous. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. I just wanted to know. I’ve never seen your son before, that’s all.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Eckleburg. He put down his pencil, gained his son’s attention, and waved a gesturing hand towards Stone.

  “This is Noah Stone, son,” he said. “And Stone, this is little Isaac. I was sure that you’d met him before.”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Stone. “I’ve heard you talk about him, but never seen him. It’s nice to see you like this, Eckleburg. You seem a lot calmer, somehow.”

  “He doesn’t leave me any choice,” said Eckleburg, smiling at the little boy, who rushed his head under the surface of the table to hide his reddening face.

  “I can see that,” said Stone. “He looks like a good boy.”

  Eckleburg didn't feel like himself for a moment, as if something had gone missing between him and Stone, as if something had been carved out. It was a gap between the two men he didn’t understand why was there. But it didn’t have to be.

  “My church is having a service this Sunday,” said Eckleburg.

  “Aren’t they every Sunday?”

  “Oh, yes, yes! But this time, I’d like to ask… if you’d like to see it.”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes, “said Eckleburg, a part of him already regretting that he’d asked.

  “I…” said Stone. “I guess I can.”

  “Well then,” said Eckleburg. He wanted to put his head under the table along with Isaac, forget what had happened. “That’s good. It’s early, though, but I’m sure you’ll make it.”

  “I’ll try. St. Constantine, right?”

  “Right, right!”

  In the meantime, Isaac, oblivious to the conversation between the two men, went behind Eckleburg’s back where he touched some of the books and papers that stuck out from the bookcases.

  “It’s a miracle, isn’t it?” said Eckleburg, leaning in closer to Stone.

  Stone looked at the boy, then at Eckleburg, then back at the boy.

  “What is?”

  Eckleburg leaned in even closer. “It’s a miracle that he’s still alive.”

  Stone kept looking at the boy, who was now reaching at some of the upper shelves of the bookcase. “Why’s that?”

  “That night, some hours before we were out at the mansion. That night he asked me if he could run along and play with the other kids, but I was so nervous that I told him not to. He stayed home that night. And those kids... well...”

  Stone looked at Eckleburg with a perplexed look. “He’s your son, Thomas, you know that, right? We’d find a way not to--”

  “I know, I know, I know…” said Eckleburg, leaning back into his chair for a moment. “But something could’ve gone wrong, couldn’t it? None of you knew him, and someone could’ve shot him then and there, and it was dark, and--”

  “I don’t think that--”

  “I think that I saved him, Stone. I forbade him to go there that night, and that was what saved him!” Eckleburg started biting his fingers, looking at his son with widening eyes. “I think I saved him that night.”

  “Thomas, I’m not sure you understand. That night, we’d have--”

  “I know, I know. I was there. Cut me some slack.
But I know what could’ve happened, you know? He could’ve gone and gotten hurt, but I stopped that. I stopped that, Stone!”

  Stone sighed, as if giving up.

  “Yes. I guess you might have.”

  “I might, right? I really might have.” Eckleburg kept biting his fingers. “Are you going to church this Sunday, Isaac?” he asked. The boy turned and nodded. “You gonna sing for uncle Stone?” The boy’s cheeks reddened anew. “Yeah, it’s going to be great,” said Eckleburg. “Could you go outside for a minute, son. Maybe go watch the boxing ring?”

  The boy looked confused as Eckleburg led him out.

  “What is it?” asked Stone, Eckleburg standing by the door, slightly hunched.

  “The police, Stone. The police. I told you that they would be after me!”

  “Easy, easy. What happened?”

  “Yesterday, I was eating breakfast with Gretchen and Father Sebastian when two policemen knocked on the door.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “They started asking questions... if I had seen anything suspicious the 15th, any shady characters walking around the neighborhood or anything.”

  “Thomas, listen. There's no reason why they wouldn't do that. You're practically in the same neighborhood as Bishop, your kid knows his kid and so on. I'm sure it was just... They have no reason to think any of us did anything, you understand?”

  Eckleburg was scratching along his hairline, his left foot vibrating under the table.

  “Maybe.”

  “Just ask around the street. I'm sure a lot of your neighbors got the same visit. We didn't leave any tangible evidence, Thomas. The only reason you feel like this is because you were there. I know what you sometimes think about De Gracy, but when it comes to hiding his trail, there’s no one better.”