Breaker Page 11

  She doesn’t know exactly what to look for—titles, or folders—they could be labeled anything, buried anywhere, so instead, she searches by format—.wmv and .mp4 the only ones she can think of.

  She lets the search window spin and search, the magnifying glass blurring as she waits to see what Ray is really made of, who he really is.

  Nothing.

  She exhales.

  Nothing shows up at all.

  Hopefully she didn’t miss anything else.

  She turns off the laptop and closes it, turns off the cellphone, and puts them both back exactly where they were.

  Standing up, she knows there are two bedrooms, so she goes to check them next.

  Turning the handle on the door to the right, it’s locked. She smells a sweet perfume from under the door, a hint of pine, and something else. She tries the door on the left and it swings open.

  In she goes.

  It’s his bedroom, dark and musty. She feels around for a light switch by the doorjamb and clicks it on. A dull bulb shines down, flickering for a moment, but holding. His mattress rests on the floor, a sad indentation in the middle of the bed; very little in the room. She looks in the closet, up on a shelf—nothing. She moves to a dresser and starts opening drawers, worried about what she might find. When she pushes the socks around, her hand bangs into something cold and made of metal, and she pulls the handgun out.

  It might not be illegal, she thinks, but digging around she doesn’t find a license. If he has one, it’s probably on him. But why not the gun, too—doesn’t he take it to the fights? Maybe not. If she were him, would she get a license? Based on what she knows about him and the fact that she’s pretty sure he’s killed someone over the years?

  No. No license.

  She takes the gun, closes the drawer, and sets the Ruger down on the kitchen counter, now opening the drawer to look at those keys. There are four on the ring, probably an extra set for the front door and the back, one for the apartment building. The last one, it looks older, so she heads to the other door with that key in her hand.

  Standing outside the second bedroom door she thinks of all of the reasons that a man living alone might lock a door. And she can’t think of anything good. To keep the sister out in case she came by and broke in? Seems pretty far-fetched. To keep somebody in? Does he have a pet? She knocks lightly on the door.

  “Anybody in there? Do you need help?”

  Nothing but the heater clicking on, some hot air being blown, something slightly sour drifting to her nose.

  She inserts the key, and it fits. Turning it to the right, it opens and she sees the light on the nightstand, a soft glow, the glass of gin almost empty, the bed, and the wallpaper—all of it so rich and decadent—and she steps inside. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees something on the bed, unsure of what exactly it is, a mannequin or something, maybe. When her eyes focus and she sees the skeleton, she screams.

  Chapter 31

  We stand in the ring, the crowd buzzing around us, money changing hands, each of my opponents in a corner, as I stand in the middle, Edson by my side. He holds a wireless microphone in his hand, his eyes off the canvas to his boss, my eyes in the other direction. Before he clicks it on he turns to me.

  “This won’t be easy,” he says.

  I nod.

  “Try not to get hurt,” he mumbles.

  “Definitely.”

  And then he turns it on.

  “Ladies…and…gentlemen…and I use those terms loosely”—the women laughing, the men hooting and hollering—“it’s time for our main event. Get your bets in, all bets in now, we’re going to close the window when the bell rings…”

  I turn my head to eyeball each of my opponents. The frat boy I’m not worried about; he looks like he could puke on himself at any moment. So maybe I just take him out first, clear some space—get a corner for myself. Richie Rich looks more strung out than dangerous, but those knuckles are no joke. The lead-pipe King in yellow is eyeballing the Disciple in blue more than me, so maybe that will work out okay. And Little Boy Blue is staring daggers into me, and I’m suddenly reminded of the kids on the sidewalk—which would explain a lot, if he’s putting that on me for some reason, a witness, a hunch, or just random anger that needs to be displaced. He’s the one I’m worried about the most, and that knife is a wicked little bitch.

  Edson is laughing into the microphone.

  “I’d introduce all of our contestants, but first of all, I don’t know any of their names, except you, Ray-Ray…” he laughs, blowing me a kiss, the crowd going wild. “Everyone knows you, big fella, and second…for the sake of security—surprise, surprise—our contestants prefer to remain anonymous.”

  The audience cheers, eager to scream about anything.

  “Give it up for the frat boy,” he yells, pointing at the baseball-bat thug, who holds it over his head, “Kid Money,” he says, pointing at Goldilocks, who makes a couple of fast punches with the knuckles, “the Latin King in yellow”—his pipe lifted overhead, one section of the room erupting—“and the Gangster Disciple in blue”—slicing the air with the knife to more cheers and screams—“leaving Sugar Ray in the middle,” and the warehouse rumbles and fills with noise. I’m the heavy favorite, but bad odds, a lot of cheddar to get your coin tonight. I feel the eyes on me and know that whatever the outcome, there will be a lot of angry gamblers tonight. I see security at all of the doors, off-duty cops in rental uniforms, some with handguns, a few with shotguns or AK-47s. These boys know better than to turn this into a riot, but that doesn’t mean it still might not happen. A few men and women in white, paramedics, are standing next to them, just in case. Off duty as well, everyone in here trying to make a fast buck.

  “When the bell rings,” Edson says, “come out fighting.”

  He eases off the canvas and down the steps, standing next to the ring, and while I can’t read lips very well, I know he’s mouthing, “Good luck.”

  I take a deep breath and face the knife—I want to see what he does first. The gangbangers are up on their toes bouncing, ready to get at it, the frat boy is swirling the bat, Knuckles is glancing from left to right, looking to hang back, if he’s smart.

  I eyeball Eddy and give him a nod, raising my heavy fists.

  I see the clapper pull back, and in that instant, the Disciple flips the knife around so the point is in his hand, and I can see what’s coming next.

  Clang.

  The bell.

  The crowd screams and the room dims, my eyes squinting, raising my hands up to defend myself, and the boy in blue throws the knife.

  But not at me.

  I see the blade buried up to the hilt in the Latin King’s neck, his arms shooting up, the pipe flying into the crowd, blood spurting out of his neck in great arcs of crimson.

  It’s the edge I need. Blue will be busy for a moment, and Yellow is out of the match. As I see him fall to the ground, the Disciple on top of him pulling the knife out, kicking the twitching body off the ring, I turn to the baseball bat, who is coming in fast, Knuckles still back in the corner, eyes wide, the frat boy swinging for my head. I duck under and he swings through and all it takes is one righteous punch to the center of his face and his nose flattens, blood spraying everywhere, my hand sinking into his skull. He bends over, his hands to his face, falling to one knee, a thick syrup running through his fingers, moaning, and I kick him in the shoulder, sending him flying through the ropes, toeing the bat off the ring as well, turning to freeze Knuckles with a look, but he’s not moving, hasn’t budged an inch.

  It’s not him I’m worried about.

  I turn as fast as I can, and the Disciple is on me, shoving the blade in my side as deep as it will go. I scream through gritted teeth, and keep turning, bringing my right hand down on his right arm, breaking it at the wrist.

  The crowd is screaming, jumping up and down, but I can’t hear a damn thing.

  He pulls back his right hand, holding it with his left, his face in pain, teeth
bared—the blade still stuck in my side.

  I laugh.

  Nothing funny about this, though—I can’t pull the blade out. My hands are wrapped with so much tape it’s like trying to pick up a peeled grape with chopsticks. Blood on my wraps, on the knife, running down my ribs, my mitts slide off the handle. It’ll have to stay in for now.

  I back up since he’s reaching for the knife with his left hand now, trying to get it back. It’s just him and Knuckles, who is still standing there with his hands up, not moving, and this jitterbug is darting in and out trying to get the blade back, the only weapon he has.

  If I can corner him, he’s done, Richie Rich not coming in for the kill, deciding that maybe this was a bad idea, and then I see it, the baseball bat flying through the air, somebody chucking it in, and Blue catches it with his good hand, the left one, a grin easing over his face.

  He starts waving it at me, up and down, and I have two choices—circle over toward Moneybags and risk waking him up or circle the other way, into the slugger’s range.

  Closer I go.

  He swings, and I can’t duck, can’t move back, the bat catching me on the shoulder, but it’s mostly muscle, nothing broken. With only one hand he just can’t swing it that hard, or that fast. I move in and he swings again, and this time I step back. He whiffs and stumbles forward, and as he does so, I punch him in the back of his head, sending him sprawling to the canvas below. I feel a stitch in my side but ignore it, the warmth running down my belly, into my shorts, and over my legs.

  Time to ask for a favor.

  I turn to the blond, ambling over to ask him a question.

  “Take it out?”

  He stares at me, his fists raised.

  “Asshole, pull it out and I won’t kill you.”

  He looks down at my side and then back up to my face. I smell urine. He’s wet his pants.

  “Take what out?”

  I look down and the knife is gone. Little Boy Blue is standing back up, a leer on his face, the knife in his left hand now, the bat on the ground.

  Fuck.

  I pray he can’t throw that thing with his left hand.

  I turn back to the kid but he’s slinking between the ropes and into the crowd, where they are beating him senseless—no sympathy for the coward. He might have done better in the ring.

  Might have.

  So it’s back to Blue Trunks and he’s closing in fast, thinking this is it. And he’s not wrong. I pull my fists up to my chest and then keep raising them higher, his left arm pushing forward, a huge open target now, blood still seeping out of my ribs, the blade coming closer as I bring the white anvils down on his left arm, stepping to the side, breaking his left arm as the blade pushes down, slicing through my leg and then clattering to the canvas below.

  He falls to his knees, both arms bent and twisted, howling and screaming as his eyes track back up to me and for a moment I feel pity, like maybe I should ease up and show mercy, and then I remember his boys, how they came after me with little hesitation. What did those same three boys do all day, all week, all month before I walked down that sidewalk—to little girls walking to school, to young men trying to avoid the thug life, to old ladies clutching at their purses on the way to the corner for cat food and milk?

  Nothing good.

  No, this is what he deserves, what he’s earned. If he survives, he’ll still be a hero to his boys, even though he might lose some standing for a while. When his arms are healed he’ll come back pissed and bitter, another shadow at my back, a boy who lost to the white beast, eager to set the score straight.

  Right arm cocked back, the stitch in my side pulling, I wince and bring my fist forward, my arms tingling, so tired, snapping his jaw, his head slinging to one side, teeth rattling into the air, and the warehouse lights up, there are screams and the bell is ringing, the kid lying on the mat, arms and wrists bent at odd angles, his face contorted, blood pooling on the canvas, the fight finally over. I’ll live to see another day.

  In the crowd I see my sister, pale and skinny, practically a ghost herself. She is devoid of emotion, not cheering, not clapping, and I wonder what happened.

  I see the blue shirt she’s wearing, the bandana on her head, which is turning back and forth in sadness, her lips pursed in a frown, tears running down her face. I realize what has just happened.

  She backed the wrong guy. She’s with the Disciples, or at least one of them, strung out probably, into him for something more than dope, it looks like. What the hell?

  And in that moment, I see my sister for all that she is—empty, broken, always searching and never finding, a user, a predator, a liar, and a thief. Our blood is tainted—rotten. My gut fills with swirling snakes, my head with angry bees—and then the crowd is on me.

  I’ve won.

  Chapter 32

  What happens afterward is chaos. It takes a while for the high to wear off, for the pain to return to my side. There are hands everywhere, patting me on the shoulder. Yelling is coming from different sections—the Disciples unhappy, the Kings unhappy, a few pistols drawn and then put away as some fists land here and there. But if they want to come back, get a shot at the next fight, they need to behave—so they do. In time they quiet down, as Edson leads me away from the ring and to the office, the locker room, where he slowly pulls the tape off my hands, the outer layer red, turning to pink the more he unwraps my fists, and finally back to a dingy white on the very inside. I drop the rolls of quarters on the ground and open my hands, clenching and unclenching them, nothing broken, rubbing them together—the pain radiating out from the center of each palm.

  “You did good. Real good,” he says.

  We’re alone in the room, the crowd outside drinking and celebrating; the ones that bet on me, anyway.

  There’s no sign of Stephanie. In the bedlam she disappeared, but I’m not surprised. If she doesn’t owe somebody some serious coin, I’d be shocked.

  “I got somebody that can look at that cut,” Eddy says, his hand reaching out to my side, but I flinch and retreat.

  “No, it’s okay,” I say. “Slap some gauze on there and I’ll deal with it later.”

  “Gauze,” he says leaning over. “Ray, there may be internal injuries, an organ sliced open. We need to get you to a hospital. I got a guy—”

  “No,” I say. “Not going to happen. I walk into a building like that, looking like this, and there will be questions. People remember me, even if you do have someone on the inside.”

  His mouth hangs open.

  “Ray, you can’t fuck around with this.”

  “I know,” I say. “The gauze, tape, and bandage? Can you do that for me?”

  “Sure. Sure. Hold on,” he says, walking toward a supply cabinet, still eyeballing me.

  He comes back and wipes off my gut with a wet paper towel, lays some dry gauze over it, the blood immediately starting to seep through, and then more gauze, and then tape, and then a massive bandage that sticks to my skin. He rubs down the cut on my leg and places a large Band-Aid on it—it’s just a flesh wound, nothing major.

  “That should hold you until you get home. Get dressed.”

  I nod my head.

  “Can I ask you for one more favor, Eddy?”

  “Sure, Ray, anything.”

  “Can I get a lift? I don’t think I’ll make it to a bus to an el train back to my apartment.”

  “No worries,” he says. “I’m out back. Hold on one second.”

  He opens the door and slips back into the warehouse, the noise deafening, and then it clicks shut, quiet. I slowly get dressed, afraid to sit down, to bend at all, trying not to stretch so I don’t reopen my wound. By the time Eddy gets back I’ve got my clothes put on, my jacket unzipped, ready to go.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “Out this way—let’s take this exit.”

  A door at the rear of the building opens to a parking lot, where a few kids are smoking up and pounding beers, a cheer coming from some of them as they run up to me, jabbering
about the fight, goddamn, brother and did you see that knife and motherfucker, you big, and Eddy laughs at them, pushing them away gently, telling them it’s all good, thanks, gotta go, all of that.

  His aging maroon Buick Regal sits at the far edge of the pavement, where the tar and concrete are worn away, turned into gravel, a hole in the fence big enough to drive through.

  “Special VIP treatment, yo,” he laughs, taking on the voice of the kids.

  “Word,” I say and I laugh for a moment, the stitch in my side aching. I turn and spit a wad of yellow phlegm, tinged with red.

  Eddy’s face gets serious.

  “Keep an eye on that, okay? Your spit, your snot, your piss, your crap—you see blood, a lot of it, see a doctor right away, I don’t care about the consequences. Go over to Resurrection and see Dr. Hall, and he’ll take care of you. A little blood today and tomorrow, no longer than three days, and you’re probably okay.”

  We stand by his car and I nod.

  “Get in, and I’ll take you home.”

  We drive in silence. Cramped in the front seat, my knees are up almost to my chin, the seat pushed as far back as possible, reclined until the bandage feels okay.

  The fight plays in front of my eyes, one thing after another, my shoulder throbbing, my side a hot burning sensation, my thigh stinging.

  “They all survive?” I ask.

  “Not sure,” Eddy replies. “That knife in the neck looked bad, but the medics were on him quickly. The kid in blue, he’s got some broken wrists, arm maybe, and a jaw for sure. That thing was hanging off his face crooked as an old screen door,” Eddy says, cackling. “Frat boy got a busted nose, but that’s about it, and the rich boy nothing but scratches and scrapes from the angry crowd.”

  I swallow and stare out the window.

  “Well, here we are,” he says suddenly, at the back of my apartment. “It’s not that late, figured the back is better than the front. You need me to help you up?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” I say, opening the door. The light clicks on inside the car, and suddenly Eddy looks much older, the wrinkles in his face more pronounced, his liver-spotted hands trembling, his eyes rheumy and red.