Scarla (6 page)

Blondie wrinkled her nose. Conroy stared, slack-jawed. Big H checked the stopwatch. The round was up, but he said nothing, deciding to let her finish. And finish she did, running a clinic on the gassed, breathless, blinded, bloodied giant. Everyone in the gym stopped what they were doing, one-by-one, to observe the dismantling of the mighty Green Giant.
Ho ho ho.
The last hope of a contender from Big H’s Fighting Gym.

Fuck it,
H thought.
If he gets beat by a retired women’s
lightweight, he’s finished anyway.
He’d rather Scarla be the one to sound the gym’s death knell.

Gibbons fell to his knees, a gory mess, neutralized in every way. Scarla snapped his head back with a jab, spritzing the ringside with blood. The old janitor scowled, dragging his mop bucket back to the ring.

Someone yelled, “Call it, H!”

Big H faked the stopwatch.
“Round!”
He jumped onto the apron. Perhaps unable to stop her savage momentum, or maybe just because she wanted to, Scarla spin-kicked The Green Giant in the face, flattening him. He didn’t move. Workers jumped in to tend to him, eyeing her with a mix of shock, resentment, and respect.

Conroy applauded, his grin showing off a 14-carat grill. “Got-
damn,
yo!” She exited the ring and Conroy was right there, Blondie sulking on his arm. “Retired my ass, you lookin’
monstrous
! What’s good?” She flashed a smile, barely out of breath. A kid scurried over to remove her gloves. Conroy invaded her space, lowering his voice. “I
know
y’been workin’. You ever wanna come wit me, I’ll make it
real
comfortable, namsayn?” The kid shot him a look, started unwrapping her hands. He continued, Blondie souring by the second. “Ain’t no girl on da street without back, not
dese
days, namsayn?”

Scarla looked away. Did Big H know she was hooking?
Stupid question.
If Conroy Flowers knew,
everyone
knew. But she’d never gotten a call. No
hey, it’s so-and-so from the gym, you doing okay?
Did they even care, or was their opinion of her so low that no one batted an eye at the news she was turning tricks? Inside the ring, guys buzzed around the prone giant, and he answered Big H’s questions as they worked on his cut. Looked like he’d be okay.
Good.
She’d only come by for a workout on her day off, after all. The kid threw her tape in a bucket and eyed her bandaged wrist, but didn’t ask.

She headed for the showers, Conroy watching her ass. “Get wit’ me after you clean up, Scarla!” Blondie’s eyes shot death rays. Scarla kept walking.

Big H noticed, grabbed one of his guys. “Hold the showers ’til she’s done, alright?”

* * * *

Scarla stood nude under the hot spray, eyes closed, hands pressed against the tiles in a multi-nozzled shower room. A row of urinals ran the length of the wall behind her. She could hear the muffled pounding of bags and the steady snapping of jump ropes on the gym floor. Sounded back to normal. Maybe she’d slip out unmolested. Last time she visited, over a year ago, she ended up signing glossies for the newbies. And one for Big H, too. He wanted it for his office wall of fame. She wondered if it was still up, or if rumor of her activities had put her on the wall of shame. She threw her head back and wrung out her hair, opening her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat like a chokehold. Blood sprayed from the shower nozzle, splattering her body. The walls poured red all around. The tiles on all sides reached for her, stretching into wolf shapes that lunged forward with wide snapping jaws. She slipped, slamming her face hard on the floor, and when she scrambled up … nothing. Steam hung lazily in the air. She sat on the floor, catching her breath.
In
…
out. In
…
out.

She emerged from the showers in sweats, bag over her shoulder. Her guard sat on a folding chair against the wall, chatting with a fighter waiting to pee. They hushed when she passed. No Green Giant, but she’d expected that.
Who’d stick around after getting his ass kicked by a girl?
Bloodstains splattered the ring canvas and the old janitor had at them with a scrub brush. Conroy and Blondie squabbled in a corner. Big H sat in his office in the back.
“Scarla.”
She looked. He waved her in.

The office was packed with years of memorabilia, faded wood paneling barely visible under the plaques, photos, posters, fight bills, stacks of magazines, paperwork, boxes of unknown content, piles of ring gear, trophies from years past, et al. Too many visuals hit you at once, making it hard to focus on any one thing.

Big H was in a cracked leather desk chair that squealed under his weight. He nodded to another one across the desk. “Close the door. They rode Clayton to the hospital, he’ll be alright. Think he’s done
here
, though.”

She closed the door, dropped her bag, sat.

H smiled warmly. “You ain’t lost a step, girl. That was poetry out there.”

Her face grew hot. He was the only person on the planet who could make her blush. She looked away. An autographed poster of Ali loomed on her right. She studied it, cooled down. “Been awhile. I should quit smoking.”

He waved her off and the chair whined. “Don’t change a thing. And you got a free pass here anytime that door’s open, you know that.”

She smiled. “How’s business?”

He cocked his brow. “You just sparred with my best boy.” Pause. “Business is
shit
.” He exploded in laughter, the chair roaring in unison. It was infectious and Scarla laughed too, though her chair was apparently better-oiled.

H ran a veiny hand over his shaved head and shrugged. “We’re about done, I think. I’ll be closed by end of year.” She frowned, started to speak, but he waved her off. “When it’s time, it’s
time
, okay? I’m sixty fuckin’ years old, I should be happy to retire.” Pause. “God knows, Wanda’s been wantin’ me to throw in the towel, long time now.” His voice trailed off.
“Long time.”

Scarla scanned the walls again. Two yellowed
Times
articles from the gym’s headier days, a framed State Athletic Commission license, a photo of H with Wanda and late son, Reg, a ringer for his dad.

H got her attention back, using wary concern in a casual wrapper. “What you been
doin’
with yourself, Scarla?”

She shifted in her seat. Could Harold Fields be trusted?
Yes. If there was one die-cast, ironclad, hardcore, old school, straight-shooting motherfucker left alive, he was sitting across the desk.
She trusted him—always did, always would. She leaned forward, unblinking. “I’ve been working police undercover for six months. I was supposed to be off the street by now, but it’s not that simple. It’ll be over soon.”

Silence. He stared at her, processing the news, then stretched far back in his chair, causing it to go
screeeeeeee!
When he came up again, he looked five years younger. “Holy Mary, mother o’ God.” He cupped his hands over his nose and mouth and started laughing, silently at first, torso bouncing in time with a jump rope outside. He finally let loose a cackle and sprang out of his chair, rounding the desk and snatching her up in a hug. She hung in his arms like a rag doll, eyeing a 1986 one-sheet advertising Harold “Big H” Fields vs. “The Iceman” Jean-Yves Theriault.

He pulled back to look at her, eyes watery, hands gripping her shoulders. “That’s the
best
news I got all year. Been hearin’ shit, y’know? Guys talkin’.” Then the dam burst. Laughter and tears flowed freely.
“Undercover?”
he whispered, in equal relief and disbelief, just happy his little girl wasn’t who the boys had been talking about after all.

Scarla teared-up too, then realized she hadn’t cried since Lannie. Not even close. And close was as close as she’d let herself get, so she nipped it. “Cut that crying shit out, since when are you such a fuckin’ pussy?”

H nodded knowingly, collected himself. “Soft in my old age, I guess.”

She grabbed her bag. “Well, there’s no
crying
in Big H’s. C’mon, let’s get a beer.”

He looked for his keys. “Okay, you got some explainin’ to do anyway.” He found them in his desk drawer. “Lemme lock the office and get Clay to hold it down, I’ll catch up.”

She smirked. “Don’t forget your walker, old man.”

She turned to leave, and there it was. Where only he could see it from his desk.
Scarla Fragran—Women’s Lightweight Kickboxing Champion,
on the back of the office door. Scrawled in sharpie:
For you, DADDY! Love, Big S.
He wasn’t her father of course, just the closest she’d ever had to one. She wasn’t his child either, just the closest he had left. She opened the door, exiting fast, head down. No one in the gym saw her crying.

Facil emerged from Turkovich’s office and ambled down the hall, stopping to pour himself a cup of the department’s notorious coffee. One cup perked you up, a second had your hands rattling. Turkovich sat on the edge of his desk, watching through the narrow pane of glass that framed the door. Facil held the sugar for five beats, mixed the brew, spotted a jumbo-sized aspirin bottle. He popped four, pocketed a fistful, kept walking. A pair of beat cops approached, their eyes locked on him while his watched the floor.

“Lieutenant LeTour,” remarked the one closest, voice full of reverence.

Facil looked up to see them stopped in their tracks. He went another two steps, before spinning on his heel. “Yeah?” They were both in their twenties, fresh-faced, wide-eyed, ready to make a difference. Maybe they would. Or maybe they’d floor it into the ground.
50/50
, he thought, as the officer pressed a soft palm to his.

“Daniel Carmichael. New to the force, sir.”
Sir
sounded strange.

The other was equally earnest. “Martin DiCenzo, sir.”

Facil eyed them. “Do we know each other?”

They both laughed. Carmichael kept the lead. “Your reputation precedes you. We heard a lot of stories about you in academy. It’s an honor to finally meet the man.”

What stories would
those
be, and who did the telling?
“Welcome to hell,” he nodded, not into chit-chat.

They laughed. “Thanks, I think,” DiCenzo gushed. “Any advice for a coupla newbies?” But Facil was already gone.

* * * *

CHIEF DARRIN J. RATTAN,
read the gleaming door plaque. Facil entered without knocking, strolled through a spacious carpeted room. A busty secretary in a low-cut top sat watching, her long hair held up in a chopstick, turquoise-rimmed glasses perched halfway down her nose. She was the latest in the Chief’s unending parade of big-titted office jockeys.

He reached her desk, saw the closed door to her right. “Afternoon, Jenn.”

She didn’t smile. “He’s not here. Business lunch.” She bit her pen, tongued the cap. It wasn’t lost on him.

“Say when he’d be back?”

She plucked a post-it note as he eyed her considerable cleavage. “
No
, but you have a message.” She handed it over.

“Thai Den, three o’clock,” he read aloud, as her eyes floated down his body.

“They’re waiting for you, so you’d better go.”

“They?”

She licked her lips. He eyed his watch. 2:44pm. The phone rang, she answered. He walked away. “Chief Rattan’s office … he’s unavailable at the moment, would you like his voicemail?” She transferred the call, watching Facil’s ass out the door.

* * * *

He punched in the six-digit elevator code and waited. -1 … -2. The lab was even colder than last time, his breath visible. He moved quickly past the tables, noting that half the bodies were gone. The pill press sat silent. Harris was typing on a computer, one-handed. The other hand was latex-gloved and bloody. Beside him, a naked woman hung upside down by her ankles, arms hanging free. A metal tub sat under the body, catching blood that drizzled from her mouth.

Harris spoke without turning, still plucking keys. “I’m glad you’re here, you need to see this.”

Facil set the teeth, still wrapped in bath tissue, next to the keyboard. “Can’t, I’m late for a meeting with the Chief. Test this, yeah?”

Harris looked. “Charmin.”

Facil eyed him. “How do you know that?”

Harris pointed a bloody finger. “The two-ply perf.”

Facil smirked, appreciating the lab humor. “See, you
are
full of shit. Look inside.”

Harris unfolded the tissue, eyed the teeth. Facil walked away.
“LeTour,”
Harris called. Facil looked back, still moving. Harris’ tone was grim, unlike him. “Have you spoken to anyone from CDC?”
The Center for Disease Control?

He shook his head. “No, why?”

Harris paused. “Come back after your meeting.” He was serious. Facil nodded, hit the elevator button, the doors opened.

* * * *

Facil stepped into the Thai Den, the smell of stir fried everything sweeping his senses. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust in the cool darkness. Dozens of red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and he eyed faces, until a petite Asian hostess grabbed a menu and greeted him.

“Just one?” she asked, in valley girl lilt.

“I’m meeting someone, is the dining room open?”

She’d been briefed, dropped the menu. “Right this way.” She bomped off and he followed, watching her swishing hips all the way to a lamp-lit hall in the back. She spun to face him. “They’re waiting for you. Can I get you something to drink?”

They?
“No, thanks.” She nodded, returned to the front. A large painted dragon snaked the length of the hall. He followed it tail-to-head, and when orange flames exploded from its snarling maw, he was in the dining room.

It was dark. Facil could barely see his hand in front of his face, but he saw the three men seated by candlelight at a table in the middle of the room. Chief Rattan rose to greet him, fit at fifty, military buzzcut and dark mustache over a classic square jaw.

“Welcome, Lieutenant.” His voice was formal, unlike their private meetings last year. On Rattan’s right was the department’s longtime Bureau Chief, Tommy Delmones. Baby-faced and gel-haired, but far older than he looked, Delmones could still go clubbing and not be mistaken for his date’s dad. He was the one largely responsible for spinning, smoke-screening, or stonewalling the press, depending on the reporter, channel, or publication. For that alone, Facil thought Delmones deserved either sainthood or death. Maybe both. On the Chief’s left sat a pallid, angular fifty-something with jet-black slicked-back hair. He wore a pricy power suit and sat with both palms on the table, as if a magic trick were coming. Facil didn’t know him, and somehow didn’t want to.