Donnybrook: A Novel (12 page)

Angus tried to jerk and asked, “Motherfucker, we got a deal?”

Fu smiled. Pushed the needle into the side of Angus’s neck. He went lights out. Fu whispered, “We have a deal. But now, you sleep.”

*   *   *

Purcell lit a Marlboro Red. Smoke trailed from his mouth along with words. “Refresh me on why you’s running from Alonzo Conway’s property.” He waved his fingers in the air. “It’s a bit muddled.”

Jarhead drummed his fingers on the hardwood table. Cuts on his face cleaned. His body scented with Irish Spring. Purcell had offered him to stay overnight. Get some food and rest. Said he’d drive him to Orange County in the morning. Jarhead explained, “Broke down outside of Frankfort. Tig give me a ride. Said he’d get me to Orange County. Helped him siphon some gas along the way. Didn’t really know what-all he and his cousin Alonzo was into. He offered me a teenage girl for sex. He wanted to pay me for helping him and Tig out. Didn’t want no part of it. That’s when the police showed up. So I got out of there. How you know Alonzo?”

Purcell smirked. “Know everyone on both sides of the Ohio River. Know what they do. Who they fornicate with. When they shit. Alonzo and Tig is into anything that brings cash. Whores and guns, mainly. Also know you ain’t from around here.”

Jarhead nodded. “From Hazard, Kentucky.”

Purcell shook his head. “I know. It’s pretty country.”

Jarhead said with sarcasm, “Right, you know everything. Like how Hazard’s real pretty, but they’s no jobs. Can’t even get your foot in at the coal mines like my stepfather did.”

Purcell flipped his ash into the ashtray. “They’s no jobs anywhere these days. Gonna keep being fewer and fewer.”

Jarhead said, “Seems the only way a man can make a living without going to school anymore is to get his hands dirty, run some kind of illegal trade.”

Purcell said, “World’s changed. Time is come when education, self-improvement don’t matter. It’s come back to a man’s got to know what he’s good at. Your history will either help or hinder.”

Jarhead waved the smoke from his face and said, “History?”

Purcell said, “Your kin. What they done did hoping to make this world a better place. Things your father and grandfather learned you. How to use your hands. Plant a garden. Hunt. Fish. Fight. What some seem to forget is history is now doomed to repeat itself, seeing as ain’t nobody learned from their mistakes. Now no one can stop what has started.”

Lost, Jarhead asked, “What’s started?”

Purcell told him, “We’re at the beginning of a violent era. Jobs are gone. Self worth and moral values have been sold. Some, like Alonzo, even prey on children. Film it, take pictures of it, and sell it. They’s too much freedom, addiction, fear, and violence blinding us from the truth.”

Jarhead crossed his arms across his chest, convinced that Purcell was fifty-two cards shy of a full deck, and asked, “What truth?”

Purcell could read Jarhead’s expression, his thoughts. “That things have fallen apart. Everything our kin suffered to build is being disassembled. Criminals run everything now, government, everything. Gangsters the only one seeing any profit. We got no jobs, no money, no power, no nothin’, nothin’ to live for ’cept vice and indulgence. That’s how they control us. But it’s falling apart. What we got is our land and our machines, our families, and our ability to protect it all, to keep them alive. We got our hands. Ones who’ll survive will be the ones can live from the land. Can wield a gun. Those folks’ll fight for what little they’ve got. They’ll surprise the criminals with their own savagery. Man, woman, and child will be tested. Others’ll be too weak and scared. Uneducated in common sense. Won’t know what’s happened. But believe me, war is coming.”

Jarhead sat lost in thought. Finally asked, “You expect me to believe this?”

“Why you think I was waiting for you? Did you see any fish in my boat? How you think I knew your name, where you was headed? You got a girlfriend named Tammy Charles, two mouths to feed with her. One named Caleb, the other named Zeek. You robbed a man in Hazard of one thousand dollars. Not a dollar more, not a dollar less. You plan on paying him back. Your girl Tammy is pained from a family member that you rescued her from. She’s addicted to—”

“Stop!” Jarhead shouted, raised his hands, palms facing Purcell, unable to swallow this prophet’s pill. He said, “Fine, say I believe you. How the hell would you know any of this?”

Purcell stubbed out his smoke, said, “Things come to me I can’t explain. Names. Faces. They actions. I see them. Have to put them in place. Sometimes it’s too late. Other times it ain’t. All I know is you need to get to Orange County. I need to get you there. So’s you can fight in the Donnybrook. It’s your calling. Our calling.”

“Calling? For what?” Jarhead asked.

“That part ain’t come to me yet.”

15

Kildrett and May Farnsley were shit-heel kin to Govern Farnsley. Living on his property. Producing children like mice in a cage. Cooking meth. Selling it. Snorting it. Smoking it. They weren’t the ones killed Eldon, the ones Whalen was searching for. They, like Officer Meadows, lay in the Harrison County Hospital. Meadows with third-degree chemical burns about his face and arms. The Farnsleys with gunshot wounds. The kids with Child Services.

Sheriff Moon Flispart, newly elected, was pissed off. Wanted to know what Deputy Sheriff Whalen thought he was doing, searching abandoned houses down in bum-fuck. Whalen hollered while the nurse bandaged his left leg in the ER. “Thought I’s searching for some meth-cook killers.”

Moon bitched, “Got two gunshot victims, Child Services up my ass like two dozen hemorrhoids ready to burst for three children being raised like animals and maced, and an officer laid up ’cause of your horseshit Dirty Harry way of handling things.”

Whalen yelled, “It was probable cause. They’s cooking meth. I smelt it.”

Moon hollered, “Here’s my probable cause. I’m taking your badge till further investigation. You’ll be having a hearing at the Sellersburg State Police Post in forty-eight hours.”

That’d been over twelve hours ago. The sun had brought on a new day. Three hours of sleep. Pot of coffee. Shit and shower. Whalen pulled on a black T-shirt, worn-out Levi’s. Laced up his work boots. Grabbed his 9-mm Glock for personal protection, seeing as Sheriff Moon had taken his service Glock. Fuck him. He’d find these bastards. Knew where he’d start. Part of being a county cop in a small town—Whalen knew where everyone laid their heads to rest. He’d do this the old-fashioned way.

*   *   *

Logs had started to moss over. Matched the tin roof’s shade, hunter green. The Blue River ran just as green on the other side of the road. That hint of fish smell wafted into Whalen’s inhale. The yard was littered with beer cans and pine needles. A small brown fridge sat on the wooden deck up next to the cabin’s front door.

Whalen opened the fridge. Pulled a matching bottle from it. No name for this brew. Poe’s personal batch. Whalen smirked. Pushed the bottle up into the flaking silver bottle cap opener attached to the side of the cabin. Popped it open. Swigged near the entire contents. His eyes peeled tears at the cold. He stepped to the front door. His fist met the gray hardwood. He raised the bottle again. Finished it. Listened to the steps behind the door. Locks clicking. Tarnished knob turning.

Poe’s Colonel Sanders skin was wrinkled. One sleep-crusted eye was open, one closed. His pasty lips rattled, “Ross?”

Whalen brought the empty bottle down. Exploded it over Poe’s forehead. Pulled him out of the doorway, onto the wooden deck. Bare feet over broken glass. Whalen gripped and twisted one of Poe’s arms behind his back. Pressed his throat down over the wooden deck rail. Kicked his bare, boxer-short legs apart, taking Poe’s movement from him.

Whalen said, “Gonna ask this one more time, Poe. What do you know about the people ran with Flat and Beatle?”

Slobbering awake, Poe arched his neck, tried to look up. Blood crowned his head and ran down into his eyes. He opened his parched lips and said, “A woman. Name’s Liz. And her brother, name’s Angus. He’s scarred up on one side of his face. Long hair, wears it in a braid, like a Indian. Names and vines tattooed all up on his body. Liz got a build made of sin, hair all matted into clumps. She run off with Ned.”

Whalen yelled, “That jack-o’-lanterned, fist-swapping fuck?”

Poe said, “Yeah, Ned. Liz come in the other night. They hooked up. She made a deal with Ned. Kill Angus, split his crank. Head down to the Donnybrook. Angus is headed that way too, looking for blood.”

Whalen repeated, confused, “Looking for blood? Angus?”

Poe said, “He ain’t dead. Ain’t the dyin’ type. He’s alive and pissed off. Come in the bar the other night asking about Ned and Liz.”

Whalen was shaking with anger. “Motherfucker!” He released Poe. “Always liked you. River-rat bar-back bastard! Caused a helluva mess. Put my badge on the line.”

Poe rubbed his head and belched, “Why you have to bust that bottle over my damn head?”

Whalen yelled, “’Cause I needed answers! Something I didn’t get last time!”

*   *   *

Fu dialed Mr. Zhong on his cell while navigating the back roads of Orange County, the signal fading as he drove. Angus rode shotgun, hands twist-tied behind him, nodding directions when needed.

From the cell phone, Mr. Zhong asked Fu if he’d found the man and woman.

Fu told him he’d found the man.

Mr. Zhong wanted to know about the money. Fu told him he hadn’t gotten the money, but he and the man were going to find the girl. That she’d left the man for dead and taken the money. Before the cell signal faded completely, Mr. Zhong asked where the girl was and Fu told him something called the Donnybrook.

He closed his cell phone. Placed it in his shirt pocket.

Beside him, Angus sat stiff from sleeping in the wooden chair. He broke the hushed AC hum. “Your boss?”

“You could say that. It’s the man I am loyal to, yes.”

The cold air clawed Angus’s face. His bound arms goose-bumped as he watched the road. Wondered how much of the meth Liz and Ned had snorted. How much they’d sold. Wondered what the shit Fu had hanging in them leather bags. Wasn’t about to give Fu a chance to show him. Angus knew out here on the back roads of Orange County, even with his hands tied, he’d an edge. The slant was on his own, a hound without a scent.

Angus needed to free his hands. Knuckle his left fist into the slant’s temple. Then put his right fist behind it. Pound his face into mushy skin and bone.

Fu pulled a smoke from his other breast pocket. Pushed in the lighter on the dash. The lighter popped out. Fu lit his cigarette. Inhaled an orange bur on its end. Smoke trailed from his lips as he spoke. “What you did to that man in the parking lot, he was blind to. Most American fighters, their movements are easy to read. Unless they have been trained by an Asian.”

Angus saw his opening. “I’s trained by my father. He’s no Asian. But he boxed when he was in the army. Trained with a Thai boxer in Thailand. Filipino arts in the Philippines.”

Fu pulled on the cigarette. “Your father understands discipline of training. Where the power of a strike originates. But also pressure point attacks. Your father, he knows honor in combat. Taught it to you very well.”

Behind his back, Angus clenched and unclenched his fist. Open, closed. Open, closed. Thought of a time when all seemed balanced. Said, “He was an honorable man. Till I dishonored him.”

Fu grinned, asked, “How so?”

Nodding to a stop sign in the distance, Angus pushed forward a bit. Created slack within the seat belt. Space between himself and the seat. Timed Fu’s movements in his peripheral. “Hang a right at the stop. Follow the road about ten miles back.” He paused. Asked, “Think you can light me one of them cancer sticks?” Fu hesitated, then nodded. Let his smoke hang from his lips. Fished out another. Lit it off his own. Laid it on Angus’s lips without looking. Angus pulled on it. Mushroom clouds of smoke rounded from his mouth.

“Father taught me how to fight soon as I could stand. Banana punching bag in the barn. Speedball. No gloves, so I’d condition my hands. Mirror for hand-weighted shadow boxing. Rope for rhythm. He had his own logging business. Small operation. Made a good living. Taught the trade to me. Let me run it. Retired. I used to fight other loggers for money after work. Passed the time. Till I had me an accident with a saw. Kicked back into my face. No insurance. Found an under-the-counter plastic surgeon who butchered my appearance worse than it already was. I fell into a kind of darkness. Economy crapped out, lumber and building stalled. Sister got me hooked on meth. Perked me up. But it was too late. I lost the business. Started cooking the shit to sell for a living.”

Fu interrupted, “And this is how you met Mr. Eldon.”

Angus said, “Right, how I met Eldon. And that’s how I disgraced my father.”

Fu said, “Most Americans do not have any discipline. My country is all about discipline. Here in the United States, it is all about choice. You made the wrong one.”

Angus bit down on the smoke, turned to Fu, and lunged forward, guiding the orange marbled glow into the flesh of Fu’s right cheek. Cigarette tobacco and ash erupted. Tires barked. Fu jerked, kept one hand on the wheel. Angus twisted his upper body and shoulders up out of the seat, drove the side of his head into Fu’s head. Over and over. Knocked Fu’s head into the driver’s side window. Fu tried to palm him away. Angus fell back. The seat belt caught. Jerked. His neck gave. His head met the passenger’s side window. He dug down into the side of the seat, found where the seat belt locked. Worked and fumbled with the button to unlock the belt. The Tahoe slowed down, ran off the side of the road. The seat belt released.

The car sat idling, half off the road, next to a barbed-wire fence that enclosed a pasture of old hay. Angus pushed his back into the passenger door. Pulled his knees to his chest. Drove his boots into the side of Fu’s head. Busted it through the driver’s side window. Glass rainbowed out the door. Blood poured from Fu’s head. Angus kicked him again. Took in where the lighter was located. Turned his back to the console. Pushed against it. His fingers found the lighter. Pushed it in.