CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE #2
“Then Angel’s right,” she said. “We should run.”
Conor looked down on her. “He’ll still come after me—and you. He won’t stop.”
He watched her face tighten. She looked down at Angel’s ruined face.
Conor sighed and stepped over to his father. “You did good, Dad,” he said, taking his father’s hand. His dad smiled, then lost his balance. Conor caught him and held him. The smell of vomit was stifling, but Conor hugged him tightly, and then lowered him to the ground next to Julia.
He walked over to Angel’s motorcycle, pushed it upright, and heeled out the kickstand. Straddling it, he looked at Julia. The ambulance siren whooped, drawing closer.
“Take my dad and follow Angel to the hospital,” he said. “Stay in the lobby where other people can keep an eye on you for the night. No matter what, don’t you or my dad leave.”
Julia looked up. “What about you?”
Conor started the motorcycle and rolled it next to her. He brushed his hand through her hair. “I’ll meet you here in the morning.”
Her eyes darkened. “Make sure he never bothers us again.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “I’ll try,” he said. “I promise.”
As he rode out of the lot, Conor thought back to the note Cracker had left in his apartment. He’d said to go to any bar in town and to ask for him. The Red Fox was as good as any. He parked Angel’s bike in front, walked in, and pushed between a couple guys sitting at the bar. One of them turned.
“Watch what you’re—”
Conor glanced at the man. The guy turned his attention back to his beer. The bartender approached. Conor recognized him from the night he’d beaten Duck and Artie bloody. It was Mike, the bartender.
“What do you want?” said Mike.
“Joe Cracker Jones said I could ask for him here.”
Mike’s smile was not pretty. “Oh, yeah. That guy.” He grabbed the landline phone and dialed. Conor noticed that big, ham-faced Mike never lost his smile as he talked and then hung up.
“He’s on his way,” said Mike, wiping the bar top with a dishtowel. The dishtowel went over his shoulder as he stepped in front of Conor. “I’m gonna love hearing about what he does to you.”
Conor punched him in the mouth. Bottles and glasses shattered as Mike reeled and fell.
Conor walked over to a booth. The bar was packed, and everyone stared at him, but no one moved.
He swept his gaze down the length of the bar.
Everyone looked into their beer like it was turning to gold.
He focused on the front door. Cracker showed up in under two minutes.
Conor watched him walk in. The squinty-eyed hillbilly was rangy.
His arms and legs were long. He had the neck of a bulldog.
He had huge shoulders, a deep chest, and a narrow midsection.
His block head belonged on a bigger man.
Easy to hit, but it would be a bitch to break without a sledgehammer.
Last and definitely least was his face. Flat and wide, with eyes set far back under a prominent brow.
He sat across from Conor and nodded. Conor nodded back.
The only part of Cracker that didn’t look dangerous was his terrible haircut.
It stuck out all over and looked patchy. He needed a better barber.
“So, Sully boy got your attention, huh?” said Cracker, cracking his knuckles. “Or was it the old rummy you call daddy?”
Conor looked at his hands. Long, thick fingers. White scars crisscrossed knuckles as big as jawbreakers. “Where do you want to do this?” said Conor.
Cracker’s eyes widened. “You’re fast to the trigger, ain’t you?”
“Let’s just get this over with,” said Conor.
Cracker stood. “Well, I’ll tell you what, I can’t wait. You follow me, a’right? It ain’t far. We’ll be dancing in no time.”
Conor stood and followed Cracker outside.
He got on Angel’s motorcycle, started it, and trailed Cracker through neighborhoods into the shopping district.
Just beyond the mall, Cracker took a left on Fourth Street, heading toward the outskirts of Brannigan.
A little farther up the road, Cracker pulled up to the old GM plant’s front gate, unlocked it, and waved him through.
Conor motored inside the gate, stopped to scan the desolate parking lot, and then followed Cracker toward the main building.
Conor pulled into a parking space next to Cracker. Emergency lights glowed over the doors of the abandoned factory. Conor looked at the sky. A few clouds floated by a full moon—the same moon he and Julia had been naked under a couple nights ago. They should’ve never come back to this town.
“Come on then,” said Cracker. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Conor dropped his gaze to Cracker, who stood in front of an open door. He walked by Cracker into the dark interior of the factory. The door boomed shut, enveloping Conor in total darkness. A click was followed by light flooding the factory.
“This way,” said Cracker, walking past him.
Conor followed Cracker, getting his bearings.
The interior of the abandoned factory was super clean.
The concrete floor had blue, black, and red lines painted over it, outlining the routes of old production lines.
A few pieces of machinery, old drill presses, hydraulic vises, and the like, stood silent.
The ceiling was three stories up. Huge windowpanes were set high on the walls.
During the day, the sun would have no trouble finding its way inside.
Conor looked ahead. Dead square in the middle of the floor was a big structure.
A tool crib. Two stories tall and encased in rubber-coated black chain link.
It was the size of a small house. Empty except for two steel staircases set in opposite corners that ran up to a second level with a metal grate floor.
“Should make for a good place to tangle, don’t you think?”
Conor looked at Cracker, who was walking backward, staring at him.
“That’s where we’re fighting?” said Conor, nodding at the cage.
Cracker bounced on his toes as he walked backward. “No place to run once that door closes.”
The comment started an echo in Conor’s head—of Angel, saying he should take Julia and run. Butterflies fluttered through his stomach. He thought about Angel’s busted face. His broken fingers.
As they reached the cage, Cracker stopped and pulled out a cell phone. Conor surveyed the cage while Cracker made a call. When Cracker was finished, he sat on the floor and pulled off his shoes, saying, “Get ready. Our audience will be here in short order.”
Conor sat and untied his shoes.
“You ever cage fight?” said Cracker.
Conor took off his shoes and socks. “No.”
“It’s for pussies,” said Cracker, lying flat on his back to unbutton his jeans. “Best fighting’s what we’re gonna do. Takes as long as it takes and only one person walks out.” He stood and stripped to black Lycra fighting shorts.
Conor looked over Cracker. His body was a landscape of muscle and scar tissue, but something was missing. Conor caught Cracker’s gaze. “How come you don’t have tattoos like other fighters?”
Cracker snorted. “You mean all that barbed wire, tigers, and lions, and bears? I am barbed wire, tigers, and lions, and bears. Don’t need it drawn on me like a two-year-old, do I?
” He thumped a fist on his chest and wagged the Confederate flag tattooed on his tongue before saying, “It’s what’s inside you that counts.
” Spitting in his hands, he rubbed them together.
“Now get a move on. They’ll be here any time now. ”
Conor stripped to his gray fighting shorts.
“And remember,” said Cracker. “We fight until one of us is ushered through the pearly gates of our Lord and Savior or is cast down into the black pits of Old Scratch. Understand?”
“Do I look like I’m stupid?” said Conor.
“Don’t know,” said Cracker, eyeing Conor.
“You came here to fight me, didn’t ya?” He let out a long sigh, and his eyes glazed over.
“You know, I once ran into this Chinese fella. A defrocked, hard core, Kung Fu priest straight from one of them secret temples. You never think there is such a thing until you run flat into it. But it’s true, I guaran-fuckin-tee you that.
That boy did all kinds of things to mess with me.
Went on for hours and hours. But here’s the thing.
Nobody ever thinks it’ll last that long.
They think one way or another, someone has to give up.
‘Oh, please stop. It hurts,’—you know? They can’t comprehend the possibility that someone may actually like the pain.
But that’s me, see? I love pain. The worse, the better.
So, here’s a hint that’ll put you one step ahead of that Chinaman.
Whether you want to go long or short with this, I’m okay.
Either way, eventually, you’ll wonder what in the hell you ever did to God to end up in a locked cage with me.
I know that’ll happen because that’s what they told me Mister Kung Fu said right before I rebel yelled in his face, ripped off his ears, shoved ’em down his throat, and choked him to death.
” Cracker tapped the side of his nose and nodded at Conor. “Words to the wise.”
Conor cocked his head and stared at Cracker. “I don’t know Kung Fu, but I do know you’re about to have a real bad night.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Words to the fucking crazy hillbilly.”
Cracker flinched. But he covered it up quickly, drilling holes in Conor with his beady eyes. “Guess I got myself a fight then,” he said.
The front door of the factory banged open. Duck and Barry came in and walked toward the cage.
“It’s showtime,” said Cracker. He opened the cage door and extended his arm. “After you.”