Hook and Shoot (24 page)

Karp said, “That's not Shuko.”

“No kidding?”

“Just so you know, you didn't beat him.”

“Not twice. Not yet.”

Eugene showed me his back, leaned in toward Karp. He wasn't close enough to the bars for me to grab him, even if I could squeeze both arms through. After some choppy hand gestures and raspy whispering they agreed on something. Eugene turned around with his revolver pointed at me.

I fought the urge to dive and huddle behind the guy on the floor.

“Come off the bench, turn around and kneel right here at the bars.”

“No.”

“I'm gonna take your handcuffs off.”

“You're gonna shoot me and you don't want a hole in the wall.”

Karp's face proved me right.

I asked, “Down through the top of the head? Or tucked behind the collarbone into the chest cavity?”

“Just get over here.”

I was breathing fast, loud. Couldn't help it. “Get Brandenberg on the phone.”

“That ship's sailed. Seems you don't know where she is, and there ain't no way you're walking out of here.”

“Take me to Shuko. We'll work it out.”

“Buddy, you don't know what you're asking for. Trust me, the bullet's much better.”

I put my hands in front of my face, like it was already on the way. “Don't be insane. How many people saw you arrest me? Gil and Eddie and Burch are looking for me right now.”

“Our report says you walked out of here a free man two hours ago. What happened to you after that is anyone's guess. They ask me, the Yakuza caught up to you. Now come on, one loud bang, then it's over. Never pay taxes again.”

I thought about Marcela. What was the last thing I said to her?

“You want the shotgun?” Karp asked.

Eugene squinted behind the revolver. “Nah, I'll put a hole in the wall—I don't give a fuck—but my aim's not that great. He might linger.”

My heart thumped, tried to escape my chest so it could attack him.

Karp must have heard it too. He cocked his head and looked down the hallway. “Wait.”

The room was silent except for the guy breathing on the floor.

I heard it again:
thump, thump, thump.

“The fuck is that?” Eugene said.

“Somebody's at the side door.”

Eugene stared at me, finally let the gun drop, put it in the holster. “Time for one last confession. Make it count.”

They walked out.

My little taste of waiting on death row stretched out, every second taking about five minutes to pass.

I couldn't hear anything through the door, decided to fill the silence by yanking off one of the steel-toe boots and banging it against the bars. Accompanied that with some hollering. The guy on the floor stirred and moaned. Our combined lyrics were pitiful and would have made a great country song.

This was not how I'd ever imagined fighting for my life. I clanged the bars and ran back through the night from when Karp and Eugene arrested me, replayed all the moments I could have—should have—acted.

Easy to do afterward. Tell me at the beginning I'd end up getting shot through the bars of a locked cell, then watch me chainsaw my way out of the casino the second I saw Brandenberg and his lumps.

The guy on the floor sat up.

“Yell,” I shouted at him.

He looked at his thumb dangling against his forearm and yelled.

In the racket I heard something, maybe the door
click. I froze with the boot cocked behind my shoulder. “Shut up.”

He dialed it down to a whimper.

The door opened. Eugene walked in, then Karp. They both looked sorry for me, embarrassed by how I was going out.

No.

They were just embarrassed. Howard Argo, the Yakuza lawyer, walked in behind them. He jerked to a halt. “Jesus, don't throw that boot at me.”

“Tell me you're here to get me out.”

“What have I said from the beginning? We just want a fair fight.” He glanced at Eugene and spread his hands out to encompass me, the cell, the building. “This is not very fair, gentlemen. What'd you do? Send some muscle in there to lean on him? How's that working out?”

We all looked at the guy on the floor.

“I need an ambulance,” he said.

Eugene put his hands in his pockets. “All we want is Mr. Brandenberg's daughter, then he's free to go.”

“He's free to go now,” Argo said. “Open the cell immediately or just hand me your guns and badges. That's how fast I'll have a lawsuit open and shut on you.”

Eugene's jaw flexed but he got his keys out.

Argo kept going. “As for Brandenberg, it's his fault for siding with the Dojin-gumi. That's a sinking
ship, and he's riding it all the way down. So are you two, you don't wise up.”

Karp was pale in the fluorescents. “You know what Shuko would do, we try to cut loose now?”

“Yes, I do. My sympathies to your families.”

Eugene opened the cell door. I stepped out and held the handcuffs up. He popped them off, put them in his coat pocket.

I looked him in the eye. “Ready?”

“Go ahead.”

I hit him with a left elbow in the right eye socket, tried to connect with as much real estate as possible. Give him an impressive bruise he'd have to explain for the next month. If something fractured, no sleep lost. He cupped his face and fell against the wall, slid to the floor.

“Shit,” Karp said.

“Yeah.” I held my hand out so he could drop my wallet, phone, and keys into it. I put them away.

He squeezed his right eye shut and pulled that shoulder up. I smacked a right elbow into his left eye, sent him staggering against the bars. He sucked in a lot of air.

I put my shoes on. “My advice? Pack your shit, leave town, and don't look back. You ever see me again, hide.”

Argo followed me through the door.

Argo steered his maroon Escalade with two fingers, relaxed in the flow of cabs and Strip workers on their way to or from a shift. The interior was a complex aroma of leather and superiority. The clock on the dash showed twenty after three.

I kept checking the rearview for lights and sirens.

“Don't bother,” Argo said. “Even those morons know when to back off. I'm not going to ask you what they said or did, because frankly I don't care and it's not my business. I don't mean that in a polite way. It's literally not the business I'm in. Understand?”

I let silence answer him.

“Good. You don't owe me for this, but you should thank Eddie. They looked all over for you. Finally he called me. Soon as I heard who arrested you, I knew where to look. But that's all done. Forget it. All I need to know is, are you able to fight tonight?”

“Yes.”

“It's very important to my clients that this fight appears legitimate.”

“Ask Zombi how it appeared. After he wakes up.”

Argo laughed. “Immature bravado aside, this is the first transaction in a long business relationship. Let's get off to a good start.”

“You still gonna wear your poncho for when Shuko
jumps out and executes everybody?”

“I'm told there are people trying to prevent that, and we're all hoping for the best. But my clients are prepared to work with Warrior under any circumstances.”

“Whether Eddie is alive or not.”

“I believe that falls under any circumstances.”

“Are you recording this?”

“No. Why?”

“So you just can't help talking like a goddamn lawyer.”

“You fight; I talk. Either way, the training shows.”

The rest of the ride was quiet. When Argo pulled into the gym's parking lot, Gil burst out of the front door and had mine open before the Escalade stopped.

“Jesus, are you all right?” He was halfway in the vehicle, pressing fingers and palms against my face, neck, shoulders, ribs. Turning my head to look at him. “Are you?”

“I'm fine.”

He pulled me out and pointed at Argo. “You're a lawyer.”

“True.”

“Get the paperwork started. We're suing those two motherfucking cops, Brandenberg, the Las Vegas Police Department, the whole fucking city.”

“It's Gil, right? Gil, I'm going to advise you against that. The fees alone will bankrupt you, and
no one will ever set foot in a courtroom. Trust me on this. But here's my card in case you—” I slammed the door.

The Escalade idled for a few seconds, then sped away.

Gil's face was a new shade of red. He walked in a few circles, came around to me, the veins on his forehead flexing. “What did they do?”

“Just asked some questions. They wanted to know where Vanessa is.”

“We don't know where she is.”

“That's what I told them.”

“Motherfuckers.” He checked the street, lowered his voice. “What did they say about Lou?”

“They can pin his death on me anytime they want.”

“You believe them?”

“Yeah, but I don't think it's up to them. I hope it isn't.”

“Christ, listen to us. Like a couple of mob guys. Enough of that shit. What do you need?”

“Sleep. Wake me up a half hour before we have to leave.”

“Look at me. How many times have I said going into a fight, relax, focus on the technique, not the man?”

“I got it. You don't have to say it again.”

“I won't. I want you to look Zombi in the eye and see everything he represents, all this bullshit, and smash him. Fucking smash this guy.”

I took a hot shower, got the smell of Argo, Karp, and Eugene and their kill box out of my nose. Fell onto a cot and brought Marcela up on my phone. Almost 4 a.m. here, 8 in Brazil.

“Crazy boy, you have a fight tonight. What are you doing awake?”

“I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Aw, I should be nicer then. How are you feeling? You sound tired.”

“I am. Lots of nonsense leading up to the fight.”

“Last time wasn't exciting enough for you?”

“Please. Don't remind me.”

“You don't want to remember any of it?”

“Well, once it was just you and me, that part I replay every day.”

She laughed, a miracle tonic, and I was right back in the truck with her, Marcela taking her shirt off, pulling mine over my head and laughing. Hindsight, I should have locked the doors and driven us both out of the city. Any direction, just away.

I closed my eyes and listened to her breathe.

“Go to sleep,” she said. “Fight hard. Don't bleed so much.”

“I'll try.”

We were the third fight on the card, Eddie trying to slip Zombi in before the seats were full. The cameras would roll, but we'd only run on pay-per-view if they needed filler.

The prep room wasn't crowded: just me, Gil, the Snarl brothers, and our gear spread out. I was on the mats with Vince going over important details like balance and footwork and not getting my head twisted off.

Robbie kept his back against the door. Reporters from websites, maybe even an AP guy or two, were thumping on it and asking about the arrest. They wanted details, not answers. The blood in the cage wasn't going to be enough. Gil turned the iPod dock up and pushed their voices back through the door, a finger in the dike.

I put Zombi's face on Vince and watched the
dead features come in for a single-leg. I stuffed it, patted the air with an uppercut-hook combo, and finished with a head kick, pulled my knee in and let it carry me around.

“Good,” Vince said.

The Zombi face knew better.

We flowed in and out of locks, slipping and sawing, cranking just enough to feel the hook. Gil brought the mitts out, and I tore into them, jab-cross-kick, the impacts booming in the small room.

Robbie had his ear to the door. “That shut 'em up.”

“Easy,” Gil said. “Don't burn out.”

I hit them harder, trying to get Zombi to blink. Wince.

Nothing.

“More head movement,” Gil said. “He's not a striker, but no reason to hang your face out there so he can open you up. Or latch on and wring you out.”

Vince and Robbie had showed us how Zombi could wrap around my head and grind his forearm bones against the scar tissue around my eyes, splitting me open. They'd been as gentle as possible, still almost got the blood flowing.

Gil stepped back. “Relax. Shake it out.”

I rolled my neck, shoulders, hands, walked in a circle, and told myself the instinct would kick in. Soon as the bell rang I'd switch into survival mode.
Savagery. Then Zombi wouldn't be in a fight—he'd be facing life or death.

Try not to blink then, buddy.

Forget Shuko and Brandenberg. Forget the Yakuza and the fact that Zombi was the tip of their spear thrust into Warrior.

He was just a man.

Smash him.

I expanded a bubble around myself, let the pressure build against it. Nothing inside but fists, feet, knees, elbows. I'd let it explode the first time I touched Zombi.

“Hold up,” Robbie said. He slashed across his throat.

Gil cut the music. The reporters outside had shut up, but somebody else was talking. Telling people to move, step back, cheers.

Shit.

The door opened and Eddie stepped in, Burch beyond him facing the small group of press. Eddie was crisp in a shark-gray suit, but something was off—he seemed bulky.

One of the reporters said something about Warrior fighters being criminals.

Eddie gave me a flat look, turned around, and told the group, “You're all pursuing a nonissue. Check the police records. You'll see none of my fighters were arrested last night. There was some confusion. They
had the wrong guy. Any other questions, ask the cops. If I hear anybody bothering my fighters with this, you're banned from the premises.”

“You can't do that,” one of them said.

“Security.”

Maroon blazers hustled the guy away.