Scarla (10 page)

The last hopeless dreamer of the day emerged from Big H’s Fighting Gym in sweats, beanie pulled low on his head, duffel bag over one broad shoulder. He eyed a shiny Sedan, crossing the street to his grimy beater at the curb, wondering what such a fancy buggy was doing all alone in that part of town. He actually
was
too naive to know the hold drugs had on some who’d normally know better. He noticed a parking ticket jammed under his wiper blade, snatching it with a frown. After the day’s workout, he wouldn’t have enough to cover his rent, much less pad the city’s pockets for the privilege of driving. He crumbled the ticket and tossed it away, imagining how he’d explain it all to David Letterman someday with the World Heavyweight Title draped over his shoulder. He tossed his bag on the passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel.

* * * *

The old janitor zipped his windbreaker with shaky hands. The doctors said onset Parkinson’s, but he’d kept it to himself. He planned to continue working at the gym until
he
died or
it
died, whichever came first. He simply loved the sport too much to let go, and though his own fighting days were long over, he’d never leave the ring, no matter his capacity. He’d lost two wives and an entire family over time, but to lose the
ring
—inconceivable. He took a fedora from his locker and though it was too big, oversized was what he saw the kids wearing, so he went with it. He crossed the floor, quiet and dark but for the overhead ring light, and saw Big H seated in his office. He waved, waiting for H’s customary fist in the air, then shuffled out into the night. The door swung slowly shut behind him.

* * * *

Big H opened another envelope, regarding the shut-off notice without surprise. He dropped it on a pile of bills to his right, removed his reading glasses, leaned back in his chair.
Screeeeeeee!
He breathed deep and eyed the walls, all the history surrounding him. He smiled. It was time. He decided to get Wanda and use the money he had set aside for the gym’s utilities on a swanky dinner for the two of them, maybe a good bottle of wine. He’d tell her it was over. He imagined her face upon hearing his decision, her relief, her
smile.
That smile that could light up city blocks, but couldn’t save Big H’s Fighting Gym because, like The Boss told us,
everything dies baby, that’s a fact.
The mere thought of calling it a day made him feel lighter. He’d no longer push that rock uphill, he’d go live his life with the woman he loved, who stood by him for years. Years spent looking deeper into fighters’ eyes than hers.

He reached for his desk phone, dialed home. “Hey, baby … I’m about ready to lock up here, and I was thinkin’ … you wanna put on that nice dress you got, the one from Krystal’s shower, and I’ll pick you up in about a half hour?” He was grinning ear-to-ear. “Oh nothin’, I just thought maybe we’d go out and get us a nice dinner or somethin’, you know … Well, wear whatever you like, you look good in all of it. I’ll be by to get you in a little bit, we’ll go have a good time … Hey Wanda? … Love you, baby.”

He hung up, still smiling stupidly, and stood up from the desk, letting the chair yelp at him one more time. He’d call Clay after dinner, thank him for being a brother, tell him not to open the doors in the morning.

Ding.
Out on the gym floor, someone rang the timekeeper’s bell. He thought the place was empty. He grabbed his keys and went to the door, eye-to-eye with Scarla’s 8x10. He opened it and looked out. A man in a suit was standing in the ring, his back turned. Under the hard ring light, it looked like he was about to be beamed-up by the mothership. “We’re closed, man,” H called. The guy didn’t respond. He cut the office lights, headed to the ring. “Hey, you hear me? I said we’re
closed.
”

Ray Smith turned. Both his eyes were blackened, swollen, bloodshot. His broken nose was bandaged, nostrils stuffed with cotton. His split lips were stitched shut with absorbable sutures. His hair was perfect. He sized-up Harold Fields in his uniquely queer manner.

Big H reached the apron, wincing at the damage up close.
“Ho.
What’s the other guy look like?”

Smith was deadpan. “He doesn’t have a scratch on him …
yet.
”

“So, I guess you wanna learn how to fight. Well, I got some bad news for ya. I’m outta business.”

Smith cocked his head, staring a hole through Big H. “Are you
Harold Fields?
”

“That’s right.”

Smith just stared.

“Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you. We might’ve been able to work with you on some things if you’da come by a couple days ago, but today’s our last day. Door’s closed.”

“Pity. I came straight from the hospital.”

H’s patience, never his strong suit, wore thin fast. “Yeah, well. Maybe just don’t get in any more fistfights, alright? Best advice I got.” He pounded the canvas with an open palm. “C’mon, get outta there, I’m lockin’ up.”

Smith disregarded the order. “Mr. Fields, you’re an acquaintance of
Scarla Fragran
, correct?”

H paused, wondered if he was talking to a good guy or a bad guy. He was careful with his reply. “Scarla trained here, long time ago.”

Smith’s brow arched.
“Long time ago.
Have you spoken with her lately, by any chance?”

H shook his head. “Nope.”

Smith smiled. His front teeth were gone.

Facil swung futilely at the side of beef called Pirado, and might’ve had a chance, if not for the fists and feet that blitzed him from all sides. He hit the cell floor and covered up, absorbing blows everywhere they could hit him. Shouts of
“Puto!”
echoed off the concrete walls. He hoped for a guard, but none appeared. A boot to the temple flipped his channel to static. He went numb. The night had just begun.

* * * *

Scarla sat on the toilet, legs open wide, still dripping wet from the shower. She grabbed her prescription bottle, popped another pill, swallowed. She’d found herself really liking—sometimes
craving
—the feeling the pills gave her. She wiped between her legs, paused. She had a knee-shaking, light-fantastic orgasm just minutes ago, but the feeling was back with a vengeance.
Insistent.
Her fingers slid to her clit and she closed her eyes.

* * * *

Morning came prematurely on the city, a big orange burning sun hanging low over the rooftops just before six. Downtown was quiet. A feral cat slunk across Allums Avenue, pausing to sniff a dead pigeon at the curb. Someone had beaten it to breakfast and chewed the bird’s fatty chest to the bone. A distant rumble scared the cat and it slipped under a parked car’s back tire, drawing his tail close. The noise grew louder and a city garbage truck rounded 2nd, brakes
screeeee
-ing to a stop alongside a heaping pile of trash that stretched half the block. Flies were buzzing everywhere. Two surly black guys dropped off the back of the truck and started chucking bags into the compactor’s maw. The driver sat texting on his phone, waiting for them to signal finish. And signal they did. One shrieked and the other suddenly bolted, wide-eyed, into the street. The driver lowered his phone, checked the rearviews, stuck his head out the window. “What?” The first worker stood frozen on the yellow line, like he was about to be sick.
“What?”
the driver repeated. The guy pointed at the trash.

The other worker suddenly appeared in the passenger window, squeamish. “Man, there’s a dead chick back here.”

“W
hat?!
” the driver exclaimed. His co-worker fell off the door, staggered up the sidewalk, doubled-over and puked. The driver jumped out, circled around back, froze.

The girl was lying naked on the curb, eyes open, trash bags covering what was left of her legs. She was a teenaged waif with braided hair and a spider tattoo behind her left ear. He noticed the tattoo because her head was severed just beneath it, still attached to her shoulders by the flimsiest glistening red tendons. She was ravaged with bite marks over every inch of her body and her ribcage had been busted open, revealing a gutted shell of a torso. He dialed 911, hands shaking so badly he had to try a couple times before getting it right. He turned away to stop himself from puking, too.

* * * *

At the end of the block, Clay Marvins approached Big H’s Fighting Gym and found it odd that the padlocked gate was open.
Did H forget to lock it when he closed up?
No, H had a mind like a steel trap, forgetting wasn’t his style. Clay tried the door. Locked.
If he’d come in early, why lock the door behind him?
Clay had been H’s right hand man for over ten years, but it didn’t dissuade him from suspecting he’d be let go every now and then. They all knew the gym was doing worse each month. It was only a matter of time before the big KO. Maybe the day had finally come. He dug his keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door, strolled in.

At first, he thought Big H was just standing ringside, lost in thought. He called out as he crossed the floor, passing the silent heavy bags. “Wake up, ol’ boy! What you doin’ here so early, H?” It wasn’t until he was closer that he saw the jump rope wrapped around his friend’s neck, stretched taut over the top turnbuckle.
“No,”
he rasped, springing forward to grab H around the waist, vainly trying to hoist his dead weight.
“H? Talk to me, H! H?! No, man! No!”
But Clay Marvins’ efforts didn’t matter. A black tongue protruded from Big H’s foaming mouth, eyes rolled back, body cold. Harold Fields had been dead for hours. Clay lifted him off the ground with all his might, growling under the strain.
“Help!”
he screamed to no one. And no one came.

Scarla stood barefoot at the floor-to-ceiling windows of a posh office suite, looking out at downtown’s business district from the 23rd floor. Banking headquarters. Grocery headquarters. Auto headquarters. Federal buildings. All the power players were there, lined up in their respective reflective skyscrapers. Like ducks in a row. She flipped open her lighter and lit a cigarette without asking permission, imagining herself lighting a wick on vanloads of explosives and taking those buildings down.

Across the spacious, warmly-lit, beige-carpeted room, behind a wide mahogany desk, sat a silver-haired man, fit and tan, in a shirt and tie with his sleeves rolled up. He was renowned police psychologist, Marx Crane. He watched as she took a long drag and exhaled, then turned to him. “Mind if I smoke?”

He shook his head. “Go right ahead.”

She trailed smoke back to the leather sofa she’d been on, plopped down next to her shoes, held the cigarette in her teeth and reached under her shirt to remove her bra. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get comfortable. Where were we?” she asked, dropping the bra on her shoes and taking another drag.

Crane ignored the theatrics and spoke coolly, with patience. “We were discussing whether or not you wrestle with any feelings of objectification on the job.”

She winked. “I wrestle with scarier things than objectification, doctor.” Pause. “You’re really far away, it’s like—” She waved her hand, making an inadvertent smoke ring. “—I feel like I have to
project
here.”

He smiled, casually rounded his desk, sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “How’s this?”

“Better. Feels like we’re in the same room now.”

“Good.” He eyed her cigarette. “I’m afraid my resolve isn’t what it used to be. Mind if I steal one?”

She smirked, tossed him the pack. “Sounds like you’ve got self-control issues.”

He smiled, drew a Red and handed the pack back, leaning right into her waiting lighter. She lit him up, watched as he sat back and savored it.

“We’re here today to talk about
you
. You can cross examine me next time.”

Her eyes sparkled. “
Ooh,
I’ll remember that.”

He took a deep breath, looked at his cigarette. “I should’ve just asked for a hit. I really shouldn’t finish this.”

“Aw, c’mon. This room’s confidential. My lips are sealed.”

He eyed her. “Cross your heart?”

She eyed the bra on the floor. “Racerback.”

He laughed. They both took long drags. A cloud hung over their heads.

“
Objectification,
you say?” She studied the ceiling. “I don’t know that that’s the word.
Compromised,
maybe.”

“You feel compromised?”

She shrugged, looked for an ashtray. “It’s easy to do when you’ve got a strange dick in your mouth every night.”

Crane’s brow raised. She sauntered to the coffeemaker to grab a styrofoam cup, returned to perch on the sofa like a cat ready to pounce. She flicked ashes into the cup, held it out so he could do the same.

“I know why I’m out there. I know what I’m doing. Most of the time it feels like I’m looking down at someone else, y’know? But sometimes … especially lately … it’s been a weird kind of turn-on.”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Have you actually
had
sex on the job?”

She eyed him, curious. “How much do you
know
about what I do, Dr. Crane?”

“Well, I’ve read your file. I’m very familiar with the demands and
pitfalls
of your line of work. I’ve seen vice workers for years.”

Silence. She just stared.

“Vice.”
She eyed the folder on his desk. “Is that my file?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She jumped up, snatched it. He stood, extended his hand.

“Scarla, give that back.”

Staredown. She flipped it open, started reading. He reached for it and she whipped it behind her back, defiant.
“What?”

Crane was calm, steady. “Put it down, Scarla. There’s nothing you don’t already know.”

She smirked. “I think there might be some things
you
don’t know.”

“Then sit down and tell me about them.”

Her eyes narrowed, skeptical. “What can you possibly do for me if they haven’t told you the truth to begin with?”

“That’s why we’re here. They have nothing to do with this, it’s just you and I. If you don’t trust the police file, tell me the truth. I’m listening.”