Donnybrook: A Novel (8 page)

All around Pete, men and women sat at tables made from large wooden spools that once held electric wire. Canning jars of golden brew and single shots of brown in front of them. Mouths spewing delinquent clatter. Pete’s bartending older brother, Lang, watched the male and female enter Cur’s, leaned on the other side of the bar in front of Pete, whispered, “You called them yet?”

“They’re waiting like turkey hunters in a blind.”

Lang warned Pete, “Watch your ass. Know that son of a bitch is spiny.”

Pete nodded. Mouthed back, “I got it.”

Lang walked to the other end of the bar. A hand met Pete’s shoulder. He turned his peach-fuzzed chin into Ned’s face and said, “Look what the Orange County sewage department shit out.”

Ned offered, “If you ain’t the stain on a raped heifer’s bedsheet, don’t know who is.”

Pete skipped Liz’s head of hair, worked his way down over her chest, then went back to her face. Complimented her with, “By God if you ain’t the sweetest thing since strawberries dipped in sugar.” Wiped his palm over ragged jeans, offered a hand. Told Liz, “Name’s Peter, but everyone calls me Pete.”

Liz met his hand with her own, returned a shithouse grin, said, “Hear you take more peter than you give.”

Pete’s pitted face burned like a candy apple and he mock-laughed. This was the best piece of ass he’d seen Ned run with, easy.

Ned popped the back of Liz’s head with his hand, said, “Enough eye-fucking him.” Looking around the room, he asked Pete, “Who’s the people we selling some crank to?”

Pete pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his front pocket. His index and middle finger offered it. “Here’s the directions. They’s waiting down the road a spell.”

Ned wrinkled his scar-tissue brows, asked, “You ain’t going?”

Pete grabbed his Miller High Life from the bar, took a swig, swallowed, said, “Naw, gotta give Lang a hand. But go ’head. They know you’s coming.”

*   *   *

Elbow heard the knock at the door. Hollered, “Don’t be shy, get your ass on in here.” The door opened and in walked Liz and Ned. The dank waft of the house’s interior pricked the inside of their noses. Made them want to spit pieces of the burgers they’d washed down earlier.

Across from them, Elbow stood barefoot on a shag carpet that’d lost its vanilla tint to spots of his and his brother Dodge’s spilt beers. A black-and-white floor-model TV sat over against a wall. Dodge sat in an electric wheelchair off behind Elbow, one hand wrapped about his Pabst Blue Ribbon, his other pinching his crotch. His eyes were two bored-out barrels aiming at Liz’s chest.

Ned wanted to get this deal done quick. Wanted out of a home that stank of more rot than his own. Told the two, “The price is a hundred dollars per gram. So how much you wanna procure?”

Elbow rubbed the chest of his Lucky Charms T-shirt. Puckered a pair of tobacco worm lips covered in white donut powder. Then pushed a hand down the front of his green nylon gym shorts, let the thumb wiggle over the hem. His fingertips tickled the bulge that pressed beneath the fabric like a large spider under a dryer sheet. He twisted his neck over his right shoulder to the disabled war veteran, his mousy voice asking, “How much you wanna spend, brother Dodge?”

Dodge lifted the can of PBR to his lips. Made a slurping sound that his thorny Adam’s apple moved with. Lowered the can and belched. Moved his eyes from Liz to Ned, asked, “How much you got?”

Ned’s nerves were rattled by the dead pierce in Dodge’s eyes, and in a sarcastic tone he said, “Plenty more than you can likely afford, crip.”

Dodge returned a smirk and said, “Why don’t you go get us a thousand dollars’ worth, pyorrhea-mouth.”

Ned kept his eyes on the two brothers, clenched his fist, said, “Liz, go out to the truck, get these dingleberries they crank.”

“No!” Dodge spit. “The girl can stay. You go get the fucking crank!”

Ned hesitated, then turned around, twisted the doorknob. Went out the door. Liz took in the desert camouflage pattern of Dodge’s legs that sat useless, his feet covered by a pair of black Velcroed tennis shoes. He had on a gray T-shirt with stains across wide letters that spelled
ARMY
. His face was sharp-boned, jaundice-tanned, cactus-stubbled, topped with a head of mahogany hair, the ends of which looked singed by flame.

Liz broke the uncomfortable silence, asked, “Guess you’s in the army?”

Elbow’s entire hand disappeared down his gym shorts.

Dodge told Liz, “Two fucking years in Iraq. Draw a pension now till our pagan lord lets me rot in a box forged by Chink hands that’ll read
MADE IN THE USA
.”

Elbow’s wormy knees began to bend while he pushed his lower back forward, thrusting his crotch up like he was humping the air. His hand still lost down his shorts, gripping the bulge.

Liz asked, “That what happened to your legs?”

Elbow began opening and closing his mouth in a stiff yawn, lip-syncing a Slayer tune, “Reign in Blood,” that only he heard. His other hand balled into a fist and punched at the ceiling while he dry-humped the air.

Cake-batter-thick spittle flew from the corners of Dodge’s mouth as he hollered, “You think happen to my legs, you stupid cunt? Goddamned fucking Hummer hit a IED!”

Liz got red-faced, skipped the lighting of the fuse and ignited with, “You inbred paraplegic fuck! I didn’t tell you to go over there. Same as I didn’t name you after a goddamned truck maker.”

Dodge had started to growl when Ned stepped back into the small house, several clear baggies of ghost-white crystal in hand.

“Quit the fucking hollering,” said Ned. “I got your shit right here. Now cough up the grand of spare change.”

Elbow lowered his left hand from the air, pulled his right hand from his gym shorts, bringing that big hard bulge with it. Aimed it at Liz and Ned. It was an onyx .38 handgun, and he told them, “Had to be sure you had the shit. Now we take the whole mess of what you got out yonder for free. After your nappy-headed bitch gets on her knees, takes that shirt of hers off. Lets me service them fun sacks while she tastes my ugly stick.”

11

Purcell pulled two fishing rods from the rusty nails he’d driven into the studs years ago. Grabbed his tackle box from a dust-deviled shelf, stepped from the wilted shed that was the color of pus, and started down the path to his johnboat. He kept it beached next to the Ohio River. He’d no idea how long he’d wait. How any of it would happen. He just knew that Jarhead would come from the wooded hillside. Stray from Alonzo’s place. For reasons he could only imagine. Those that corralled at Alonzo’s place were any and all manner of lowdown, without morals. Seeking sickness and carnage. Some said he’d tried to bring young girls from foreign lands, to sell their skin. Entertain those that were into the puerility.

He lay his gear in the chipped boat and the sooty water splashed. Busted tree limbs, beer, and oil cans lay scattered along mushy earth. Purcell pushed the boat into the water, waded in until the wet lined the top of his rubber boots, and with the sun beating down on him he hopped in the boat. Pulled the cord on the small motor, glanced down the flanks of the river, checking for barges so he could cross to the other side, knowing the heat he felt wetting his skin beneath his clothing was nothing compared to what was soon to come.

*   *   *

Cans of gasoline surrounded Jarhead. He ran one hand through his sweaty locks. Thought about those lights from a few nights back. The truck’s gas pedal to the floor. The red-and-blue flashes that had opened the night. He took the back-road curves not knowing his way. But outrunning them.

Now, Jarhead stood in a rusted tin garage, a grease-smudged rotary phone held to his ear, thumbing a creased and worn picture of Tammy and the boys. He hadn’t spoken to them in days, missed the boys watching him skip rope in the dirt yard and work the heavy bag in the late evenings. They’d clap their tiny hands in amusement. After training he bathed them and tucked them into bed for sleep. Showered, then went into his bedroom, wrapped his arms around Tammy’s warm innocence.

He’d needed to let Tammy know he was okay. Make sure she and the boys were the same. Into the phone he asked, “Anyone hassle you?”

The female voice was feather-pillow-soft with worry. “Marshal Pike just wanted to know if I’d seen or heard from you. Wondered why you’d go and rob a gun shop for one grand. Not take a penny more and leave the shotgun.”

“What’d you tell him?” Jarhead asked.

Tammy said, “Last I seen you the sun was rising. The kids was crying with shitty diapers.”

Jarhead was restless and a bit worried. He hadn’t beat on a bag nor run for conditioning since the robbery. He needed to expand his lungs. Feel some flesh give. Bring some hurt. He needed to make some tracks toward Orange County. And he wasn’t real comfortable with what had happened a few nights back. Worried about the county officer he’d beat, the man he’d choked out, the cops he’d outrun. What if they’d gotten the plate number of the truck he’d fled the scene in with Tig? He told Tammy, “It’ll be over soon.”

Tammy asked, “Promise?”

“Promise. After this coming weekend I be the winner of the Donnybrook. I’ll send someone for you and the babies.”

Tig and his cousin had given him a place to rest his head, a spare room with a cot and soured sheets. In the night Jarhead heard a lot of men coming and going from the basement. But he ignored whatever it was they did besides siphoning fuel. They were his transportation to Orange County this evening.

“Why not you?” Tammy asked.

Jarhead told her, “Can’t risk being seen in or near Hazard after what I done did. I win, none of that’ll matter no way. Be more money than either of us ever did see in our lives.”

Tammy got quiet. A child sneezed in the background. She asked, “What if you don’t win? What if they’s someone meaner and tougher than you? Then what we gonna do?”

There was always a
what if?
. Like the first time Jarhead threw a punch. What if that man hadn’t seen him do it? Knock that other boy silly for bullying another. What if he’d not seen something in Jarhead? Taken him under his wing. Learned him how to fight. Throw a punch. An elbow. A knee. How to work his hips. Rotate and turn a fist. Where to hit and how to hit. The kidneys. The liver. Heart. How to take care of his body. Be confident, not cocky, like the man he’d never known. His real father. A marine who’d served in the Vietnam war and boxed in Puerto Rico. The man that his mother had nicknamed him after. She told him she’d left Miles before Johnny was born. That his real father, Miles Knox, spoke with the dead. Had a violent streak and a hankering for the bourbon. His mother had given him her maiden name, not his father’s.

Johnny often wondered if Miles was alive or had passed away. He’d never tried to make contact. His mother had confessed all of this to him just days before the dark cloud hit and she’d committed suicide after his stepdaddy had passed from black lung.

“Honey,” he said, “they is always someone meaner. But the smart fighter is the better fighter. I’ll win. I’ve no other choice. Then I’ll send someone for you.”

Tammy questioned once more, “You promise?”

“I done told that I did.”

“Wanna hear you say it again.”

The gloom in Tammy’s tone was killing him. He had to stay focused on their future, not her uncertain sadness.

“Promise.” Jarhead changed the subject. “How our babies doing?”

Tammy’s voice cheered up. “Little Caleb is getting the sneezes. Zeek is sleeping.”

“How about you, got enough Oxycontin for your pains?”

Tammy had lower-back spasms from an uncle who’d raised her with knuckles, knees, and slats of busted pine to her body after her parents disappeared with the traveling fairs. From her childhood to adulthood, all she knew was pain. Till she met Jarhead. Who took her away. Paid the uncle a late-night visit. Made sure he’d never touch anything breathing again.

She said, “Yeah, but not enough to drown my worry for you.”

She was so sweet it made her love tart, and that made Jarhead love her that much more.

A man’s voice hollered, “Jarhead?”

He turned. Tig’s cousin, Alonzo Conway, came into the dirt-floored, tin-sided garage carrying two red five-gallon gas containers. “Sorry, son, didn’t know you’s on the wire.”

Jarhead told Tammy, “I gotta get. I’ll call Sunday evening.”

Tammy asked, “Who’s that?”

“Alonzo. One of the guys helping me get to the Donnybrook. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Jarhead hung up the phone.

Alonzo owned a fifty-acre plot with a monstrous rundown farmhouse out in the sticks, along the Ohio River. He placed the gasoline-filled containers on the floor. Offered a hand to Jarhead. A cigarette hung from his lip. Ash fell as he spoke. “Wanna thank you again for helping Cousin Tig. Seeing as you won’t take no cash, left something on your bunk in the house.” Alonzo’s fudge-tinted hair was wild and fatty in all directions. His skin was fiery red. Glowed with sweat beneath his T-shirt and jeans. He pulled the cigarette from his lip. Flipped it out the sliding tin doors behind him, onto the red clay. Winked an eye to Jarhead. Picked up the gas containers. Said, “Best hurry up yonder ’fore it gets cold.” Walked to the rear of the garage.

In the house, floorboards gave and screeched under Jarhead’s boots. He pushed the bedroom door open. A girl who appeared no older than a freshman in high school sat on his cot. Hands behind a head of hair the shade of pond mud, thick-bristled and shoulder-length. Her complexion was steam white. She had metallic hazel eyes outlined by Mötley Crüe mascara. She was Twizzler-lipped. Two bra-less mounds lumped beneath a V-neck Hanes cut low. Her flat belly with a thick-gauged piercing poked out above a pair of cutoff sweats. Her right leg bent at the knee. Left leg wrapped in a leather brace. Piece of steel attached to it ran down to a thick-heeled shoe. A matching shoe attired her right foot. She smiled, her teeth vanilla-tinted. “Where you get all this money?”

The Walmart sack of cash with Jarhead’s clothing sat beside her.

Jarhead approached her. Said, “None of your worry.” And grabbed the sack. Asked, “Who the shit are you?”