Breaker (12 page)

When she sees Ray leave for the night, Natalie sneaks out the back door of her apartment and glides over to his place, the back porch shared, one long stretch of worn-out wood. She rattles the window, hoping it's like hers, loose and crooked. She bangs it up and down as the latch turns from side to side, slowly slipping out, finally open, and lifts the window up.

She climbs in.

The apartment is dark, the lights out, just the glow of the clock on the stove. She hunts around for the light switch, stumbling over the kitchen table and chairs, and flicks it on. Sitting on the table is the envelope, with the clippings, and the birth certificate. She sits down and starts to read. She knows he won't be back for a long time.

If at all—there's always that,
she thinks.

She puts the pieces together, understands what the birth and death certificates mean, and then the mother, Rita, and the daycare adds a layer of discomfort that wraps around her, stealing her breath. When she gets to the father, David, she feels a field of electricity running over her skin, and she sets the newspaper clippings down. He looks familiar, and not just in a father–son kind of way.

Weird.

But what really happened here, what's truth and what's fiction?

She doesn't know.

She gets up and pushes the chair back in, rearranging the papers to look like things were before she came in. Eventually they may talk about why she was in his apartment, nosing around, but for tonight, assuming he comes back alive, that needs to be her secret.

She roots around the kitchen and doesn't find anything interesting, except for a drawer with several keys in it. She walks to the bathroom, flicking the light on, but there's nothing of interest here either, just the need for a good cleaning, the shower and toilet ringed with mold and grime. Up at the front of the apartment she turns on a lamp, and sees the cellphone, the laptop, and turns them both on, running through the text messages, seeing everything that Stephanie sent, another dark pebble settling down into the center of her gut. Nothing in the emails that's incriminating, just the fights, and even if she deleted those notes from Eddy, the police could certainly get them back, nothing she can do about that, not smart enough to wipe those messages clean.

She wonders if there's any porn on the laptop, not the regular kind, but children—and it makes her pause. What does she really know about Ray? Does she really want to find out? What exactly might be on the laptop, and how would that change things between them forever? She goes to the kitchen, takes a glass down, and fills it up with water. She chugs it down, suddenly sweaty, and then wipes it dry, placing it back on the shelf.

She has to look.

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.

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.