Donnybrook: A Novel (17 page)

His lips jerked, tears smudged down his cheeks, and he reached a hand to Dodge’s face. The flesh was rough and warm. The circulation beneath dissipating.

Elbow ran his hand through Dodge’s head of fishing-line hair, glanced down at the assault rifle across Dodge’s lap. Elbow thought, Someone is gonna pay. He pulled each of Dodge’s fingers from the rifle. Held it in his grip. Ejected the clip. It was empty.

Elbow glanced through the open door out into the yard. Saw the Asian man standing in front of Pete, who was on his knees. Elbow wrinkled his damp face and muttered, “Who the shit?”

Out in the yard, Fu unbuckled his belt. Stepped to Pete, who still searched for speech. Pete struggled to his feet. Tried to run from Fu, who kicked Pete’s ankles from beneath him. He fell flat. Fu pressed into Pete’s back. Pete’s limbs flailed. Fu drove a palm into the rear of Pete’s neck, stopped his flailing. Took each of his arms. Bound them behind him. Wrist over wrist. Pulled him to his feet. Spun him around to face him. Listened to him create god-awful tones. Watched the tears streak dirty down Pete’s burnt cheek. Fu grasped Pete’s unhinged jaw, pressed both thumbs up into his chin. Rehinged the jaw. Pete stomped his feet into the earth. Spit and hollered, “Fucking-fuck-fuck-fucker!”

Fu laughed. “You will get me to the Donnybrook.”

With hands bound behind his back, Pete tried to kick at Fu, to fight him off as he yelled, “Son of a bitch, I ain’t getting you nowheres except to a body dump.”

Annoyed, Fu forked the fingertips of his right hand into Pete’s neck, made him gag, then palmed his shoulder and spun him toward the Jeep. He told Pete, “You will take me now.”

Pete tensed up. “Who the shit are you?”

Fu told Pete, “That is none of your concern.” And led him to the Jeep’s open door.

Then Fu heard a whooping battle cry coming from behind. Before he could turn around, two skeleton-pale arms bear-hugged his body and hard bone dug into his neck.

19

Ned and Liz took to the woods. The rucksack slung over Liz’s shoulder bounced as she pushed through the limbs of cedar that scratched her face and arms. Behind her, Ned limped with cramped, bruised muscles, calling out, “Mangy bitch, keep where I can see you and that ruck.”

Wondering why she had ever hooked up with this Pez-dispensing piece of shit, Liz turned with the .38 raised. Prodded the barrel into Ned’s swelled forehead, told him, “Fucking pariah. You’s one that got me into this. Could’ve sold crank somewheres else.”

Ned’s eyes crossed taking in the barrel. “Yeah, well, don’t forget half that crank and money’s mine.”

The bawl of dogs came faint behind them, and Ned shouted, “Bitch, get that gun outta my face! McGill and his gang of bastards has got out the hounds.”

Liz and Ned came out of the cedar thicket and into deformed formations of gray rock, all shapes and sizes, from house-trailer big to Yugo small. They scrambled and climbed through narrow splits of rock till the land leveled out into soil and moss. It was divided by a barbed fence, a footpath running alongside it. Ned warned her, “Don’t touch that. It’s running juice.”

Liz rolled her plum-lidded eyes and said, “No shit.”

“Just follow me.” And he stepped to his right. Metal to metal clanked. Ned dropped backward on his ass and hollered, “Goddammit!”

Ned reached with both hands and tugged at his leg, the tibia and fibula chinked and spurred. His boot filled with blood. He’d stepped into an old, rusted animal trap.

Liz shadowed over him. Her face resembled smashed prunes as she took in the pulpy moisture that spread through his jeans. His knuckled lips twitched, and he begged, “Don’t just stand there gawking, you morbid cunt. Help get my ankle free.”

Liz pig-snorted a laugh and said, “Shoulda watched where you was stepping, you broke-tooth fuck.”

Then she turned and walked in the other direction.

Ned screamed, “Don’t you leave with that ruck of crank, bitch. Get back here!”

Liz ignored Ned’s hail of words. Followed the path along the fence line. Stumbled forward. Her palms slammed the hard surface of rock and soil. She lay in a push-up position and cursed, “The hell?” Twisted her neck, glanced back at her legs and saw a line of clear wire across the path, one end attached to a fencepost, the other end attached to a small metal stake driven into the ground. Before she could move, a slither and hiss came from in front of her. She turned her face to the movement. Spineless coils struck at her from three directions, missing her nose and cheeks by centimeters. Liz went concrete still.

The hounds’ barking grew louder. Ned grunted and moaned. Liz watched three copperheads, their tongues radaring out for waves of movement to bounce back. Her eyes followed their tails to the clear wire attached to their scaled ends. Like the trip wire, they were tied to metal stakes hammered into the earth. Ned screamed at her, “Get over here! Get these teeth pulled off my ankle!”

The copperheads coiled their movement and waited. Liz slowly pushed herself backward over the dirt, cedar, moss, and chips of rock. When she felt she was out of striking distance, she arched her back, balanced herself onto her knees, brought her hands to her face. Her insides knotted and twitched as she took in a moment of silence. Exhaled for calm. Heard a familiar voice behind her.

“What’s a matter, snake charmer? Them’s puny compared to the sizes you’re used to.” Then she felt a hard heel to her back. It knocked her forward right into the snakes. They struck at her head and neck. Over and over and over. While her hands slapped and she screamed.

Liz’s screams ceased, her struggle slowed to a shudder. Snake venom steamed her bloodstream. In agony, Ned twisted his body. Lightheaded, he pleaded with the figure that stood over Liz. “Hey, man, I … I’ll split what that bitch has in her ruck, just get these damn teeth off my ankle.”

Angus watched Liz’s flesh swell and bubble with venom. Saw the rucksack over her shoulder. He turned to Ned and said, “You fucking worm, whatever’s in that ruck belongs to me.”

Ned wiped sweat from his face and groaned, “Huh?”

Angus stepped toward him and said, “I’m the man you planted a 12-gauge slug into.” Angus pointed to his bandaged shoulder stained burgundy. “Left me for possum fodder.”

Ned stared at Angus in a sideways glance and said, “Bitch said—”

Angus could hold his temper no more, came down on Ned from behind. Pushed his knee into Ned’s back. Placed the sawed-off under Ned’s chin, pulled it across his throat. Choked him and gritted, “Wanna hear you gag, you piece of regurgitated meat. Gag! Gag!”

Ned’s puffed cheeks shaded fire-engine red. He couldn’t breathe, let alone gag. He was dry as a rotted tire lying in a junkyard of heated clay.

Angus quit choking Ned. Stood up. Turned. Grabbed Liz’s leg with his free hand. Ignored the pain in his shoulder and dragged her body up next to Ned. Pointed to the rucksack. And said, “That my crank, you spineless bastard?”

Ned rubbed his neck and coughed for air as his eyes watered. He glanced at Liz’s frame, now a bloated boil of flesh, told Angus, “Crazy bitch cut me a deal: take you out for a cut of some fresh-cooked crank, a sample of her sours. Shit, I didn’t know you. I didn’t even know her. Seemed like the deal of a lifetime.”

Angus thought about the bark and bite that had opened him up that night, left him inches from death, and his anger wedged even deeper through his veins. He wanted this Ned to bleed and suffer. To wish he was dead.

Squatting down, Angus shoveled the double barrel into Ned’s ribs, knocked Ned to his side. Ned’s leg tugged within the trap and he coughed and screamed. Raised a hand. Angus threatened, “Ain’t leaving you like you left me. I’ll make sure every time your chest expands your bladder leaks.”

Angus dropped a knee to the earth, kept Ned’s body twisted, took clumps of Ned’s hair in his free hand, pulled his head back, pushed the sawed-off into his mouth. Ned gagged on the taste of gunmetal. Angus pushed the gun down as far as he could. Smiled and watched mucus run from Ned’s bruised and bloody nostrils, Ned’s eyes watering as his throat contracted and he tried to retch. Angus wanted to mind-fuck this Ned. He thumbed the triggers of both barrels and said, “Hope that cunt was worth dying for.”

Ned vibrated a gargled “NO!” from his throat.

Clicks, and then red dots lit up Angus’s body. The growl of hounds seeded the anger that rang in his ears as a voice hollered, “Stop!”

Angus twisted his neck, saw he was surrounded by men bearing high-powered rifles with laser scopes. Cur hounds sat in panted growls. McGill said, “Chainsaw Angus. Son of a bitch!”

Angus said, “This don’t concern you.”

McGill chuckled. “Don’t concern me? That son of a bitch and his whore done caused me enough dilemma. Add that to you dragging one of my men through the fucking entrance, tearing the shit out of my gate. That man’s not even good for the hogs to slop on now. You’re on my property. Put the goddamn gun down.”

Angus jerked the sawed-off from Ned’s mouth. Pointed it at McGill. “How about I spread your ass across this acreage with both barrels?”

*   *   *

Elbow bit into Fu’s neck and squeezed his frame from behind. Pushed him forward, sandwiching him into Pete’s back. Pete hollered, “You fish-eyed faggot! Quit pressing your prick into my ass.”

Elbow ripped at the flesh of Fu’s neck. Fu ignored the pain. Dropped his left hand down. Reached behind him. Squeezed Elbow’s balls. Elbow spit flesh, hollered, “Yeah! Get you a handful, goggle-eyes!” And started to dry-hump Fu’s hand.

Fu twisted his grip. Elbow yelled, “Head-bang this Made-in-China motherfucker, Pete!”

Pete rocked his neck backward, reopened Fu’s nose. Blood jetted out of the already swollen lump.

Elbow let go of Fu. Pete turned. Faced Fu. Fu stepped back and drove a quick fist into his throat. Pete’s windpipe jammed. His face went pale. Fu stepped forward, crossed his forearms into an X across Pete’s throat. Raked his fingertips down Pete’s body like cat claws ripping and burning his skin.

From behind, Elbow kicked the Jeep’s door. Bullwhipped the back of Fu’s legs. Pete couldn’t breathe. Tucked his chin. Raised it. Twisted his head from side to side, trying to clear his blocked windpipe. Elbow grabbed Fu’s hair with both hands from behind. Jerked him away from the Jeep. Let go when Fu’s back hit the ground. Fu went with the momentum. Rolled into a backward somersault. Planted both of his hands on the ground, kept his legs side by side. Planted both feet into Elbow’s chest. Dropped him to the ground. Elbow hollered, “Son of a bitch!” Scooted across the ground.

Fu lay in a push-up position, inhaling and exhaling to get his bearings. Pete wormed his hands from the belt that bound them behind him, brought them to his neck. Pinched at his throat till his windpipe popped back into place. He charged Fu, punted his face like a football. Fu’s vision fogged, his glasses knocked from his face. His hands went wild, patting the ground for where they lay. Pete stomped down on Fu’s hands. Fu caught and cupped Pete’s ankle. Pulled him to the ground. Clutched at his body. Rolled him facedown. Pete kicked. Tried to squirm away. Fu’s hands dug into the back of Pete’s boxers. Tugged on them, baring Pete’s pale ass.

Elbow grabbed the crowbar from the ground, stood up and brought the crowbar up over his head. An explosion opened the air. Elbow’s chest parted around a hole. Then another explosion and another hole in his chest, a series of unconnected dots. The crowbar hit the earth. Elbow followed.

Behind him, Whalen stood on his knees, bloody. The ache from the knife wound in his thigh was nothing compared to the bullets that had raked his torso. He held his smoking Glock. Finally, he lowered it.

Fu straddled Pete’s squirming back. Fu laughed and said, “Assume the slug posture.”

He felt for Pete’s left arm, cupped his left hand around the forearm, twisted and raised it up, pressed his right hand on the elbow so it wouldn’t bend. Then all at once, Fu pushed Pete’s arm into his shoulder, dislocated it. He let it flop to the ground beside Pete, who screamed in agony.

Fu did the same to Pete’s right arm. Then patted the ground until he found his glasses.

Whalen pushed himself to his feet, felt his body wavering into a numbing shock, dropped the Glock onto the ground. His head was spinning and he fell forward. Fu spun around, caught him. Walked him to the Jeep. Placed him into the passenger’s seat. Whalen mumbled, “Donnybrook … got to get to the Donnybrook.”

The man was in no shape to get anywhere. Fu told him, “I will get us there.” He turned and slammed the Jeep’s door.

Standing over Pete, Fu watched him grunt and kick his legs, trying to roll over like a fish out of water. Fu kneeled down beside him, said, “I’ve taken your balance. You cannot go anywhere.”

Fu dug his hands into Pete’s hair, pulled him to his feet, guided him toward the Jeep.

“Now, you will tell me how to get to the Donnybrook,” he told him.

Blister-faced, Pete coughed and spit out, “I ain’t telling you shit. Sons of bitches killed Elbow.”

Fu palmed Pete’s right shoulder from behind, spun him. Pete hollered, “Mother—” Fu’s right hand separated the air, gripped Pete’s throat. Looking at Pete through busted glasses, Fu said, “You will wish you had not pushed me to this extreme.” Fu squeezed till Pete lost consciousness.

*   *   *

Pete’s vision was a spongy blur. All he could make out were the movements of a dark shape and the scents of motor oil and gas.

Pete said, “The fuck?” Wobbled his upper body forward. The separation of his right and left arms from his shoulders brought on a migraine of pain. He tried to move his feet but his shins were bound with fence wire against the legs of the wooden chair in which he’d been restrained.

Pete sat in his boxer shorts, barefoot and defenseless. His vision focused from blurs to the clarity of Fu’s outline and he sobbed, “You pet-eating son-of-a-bitch, your buddy killed Elbow.”

Fu stood with his back to Pete, tasting the blood that rivered down from his nose to the broken shards of his mouth. He swallowed and said, “We have established this already. Let us talk about what I have found in this rectangular case, what you Americans call a tackle box. Only there is no tackle in it. No fake worms or sinkers or line. Just these curves of wire, hooks.”