The Rabbit Factory: A Novel (32 page)

“Is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” the trainer said. “This here is Stubbock, sir, he’s the one we’s supposed to fight.”

The colonel looked him up and down then.

“The hell it is,” he said. He looked down at the floor and took a few steps away. Wayne followed him with his eyes but not his face. He looked like he was thinking something over and that maybe the answer was written on the floor. He turned. He stopped. “At ease,” he said.

The guys who’d been doing the sit-ups got their gear and went into the showers. All Wayne wanted to do now was just leave. Fuck Johnson. He’d already popped him anyway. Fuck all these damn marines.

The colonel walked back closer to him. Henderson rolled his eyes and Johnson started slipping off the gloves.

“Yes, sir,” the trainer said. “We were sure lookin’ forward to that match. Colonel was, too. Colonel’s a big fight fan.”

“You know Admiral Hoozey?” the colonel said.

“Well no, sir, I don’t know him personally,” Wayne said.

“Hmm,” the colonel said. “All right, then. What’s going on here?”

Wayne looked at Johnson to see if he was going to say anything but he could tell at a glance that he wasn’t going to say shit.

“Nothing much, sir. We came in here to get directions to the cabstand.”

“Where you going?” the colonel said.

“Out to supper, sir. Somewhere in Jacksonville, I guess.”

“Don’t like that good old marine corps chow, huh?”

Damn. This fucker. But he’d seen pricks in the navy, too.

“Ah, sir, well, we just…we were hunting a steak house.”

The colonel stepped up right in front of him.

“And so you thought you’d just take a swing at another enlisted man while you were here.”

Uh-oh. He could almost quote the next thing that was coming. And he was right.

“Because that’s punishable by a court-martial, hitting another enlisted man. At least it is in the marine corps. I’ll bet you ten bucks the navy has the same rules.”

“It was just a misunderstandin’, sir,” Henderson said.

The colonel turned his bored face away for just a few seconds.

“If I need anything out of you? Petty Officer Third Class? I will pull your chain for it. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, sir,” Henderson said, and clammed up.

And then those hard green eyes were on him again. One side of his immaculate uniform, on the breast, was covered with bright multicolored campaign ribbons, lots of reds, blues, yellows, stripes, little bronze stars, oak-leaf clusters. The two silver eagles sat on his shoulders with their wings spread. Another was on his cap. No telling how many people he’d killed or had killed and where. One hard-ass old son of a bitch chomping at the bit to be a general. And Wayne even knew what was going to happen. So when it came it wasn’t a real big surprise. The colonel’s voice took on a philosophical, almost fatherly tone.

“I suppose I could overlook it if I wasn’t so damn disappointed in us not getting the match. What would you say to sparring a bit with Corporal Johnson? He’s leaving soon. When are you out of here?”

“Tomorrow morning, sir. But I don’t have any gear.”

He didn’t want to do this. And he knew there was no way the colonel could make him do it. But if he didn’t do it, all the colonel had to do was go to the wall and pick up the phone that was hanging right there and call a couple of MPs over here and then he and Henderson wouldn’t be going out to Jacksonville for a juicy porterhouse. And maybe not even out of here in the morning to go back to Memphis. Oh shit.

“We can loan you some gear. And I can assure you it’s quite all right to stage a little sparring match right here in our boxing barracks with qualified personnel. We do it all the time, don’t we, Joe?”

The trainer was old, and he had a job and a paycheck he probably needed, and he just nodded his head. Probably didn’t make a shit to him anyway.

“Yes, sir. Sure do. Do it all the time.”

So Wayne just said okay. He wasn’t even mad anymore. He just wanted to get it over with.

“I’m gonna shut this door,” he said, since it was standing wide open.

Mister Arthur nodded but didn’t answer or look up. So he went out and pulled it closed behind him and his breath frosted out white in front of him. He could see the red taillights of the black Jag out there at the curb and smoke was curling in a froth from the twin exhausts. He saw her get out, saw the interior light come on, saw it go off, saw her walk to the back of the car, where the trunk lid had raised slightly. He didn’t think she needed to be driving but he went down the step and past the trees that flanked the little walk and she raised the trunk lid. The trunk was brightly lit.

He wondered if she was really going to Montana. She damn sure sounded like she was. And suck marks. God. What’d he do, rip her bra off? And how’d he knock the door down, old as he was? He guessed maybe it was one of those things like when somebody turned a tractor over on him and his grandmother picked it up off him.

Miss Helen was standing by the trunk waiting for him when he got to the sidewalk. She was angry and very beautiful in the cold. Eric turned his head to see if he could see Mister Arthur watching through the front window, and he could. Mister Arthur had his hands up beside his face and he was pressing his face right against the glass. Jada Pinkett was beside him, looking out.

The car was idling at a rough stutter and the smoke curled and scattered into the air. He set the middle-size bag down and stepped off the curb with the big bag.

“You can put it right in there, Eric,” she said. He looked at her for a few seconds and then swung it in there.

He turned his face toward the house. Mister Arthur was still watching. He turned back to her.

“You really goin’ to Montana?” he said.

She nodded before she answered, looking down at the asphalt for a moment, where Eric could see a flattened sardine can. She had her hands in her pockets and the cuffs of her jeans came down low over her black cowboy boots. She was weaving just a little. Eric put his own hands in his pockets. It was very cold. It looked like a bad night to head out anywhere. He didn’t even know where Montana was. It was way up there somewhere. Up in the north and over to the west. It was up near Canada. He remembered looking at some of it in
Lonesome Dove.
And
Stand by Me.
And
A River Runs Through It.
And she was from there. Ranches. Mountains. Bears. He would sure like to see that country for himself.

“Yeah,” she said, and looked up. “You want to go with me?”

“Huh?”

“I can take care of you,” she said, and stepped closer. “We’ll be there in three or four days at the most. It’s a beautiful place. It’s got mountains and the biggest sky you ever saw.”

Damn. Just take off with her?

He looked back at the window. Mister Arthur wasn’t looking out it any longer. And he knew that the old man’s world had to be coming apart. And he even felt like in some way he’d caused it. He looked back at Miss Helen. There was more than one reason he couldn’t go with her. There were plenty of reasons he couldn’t go with her. But he just named the first one that came to mind.

“What would I do about him?” he said.

She smiled and lifted her hand and brushed some hair from her face.

“You mean Arthur?”

“Naw,” he said. “I mean Jada Pinkett.”

Johnson had surprising speed and he popped Wayne hard twice on his left cheek and then missed with a left that Wayne ducked under.

“Come on, Wayne!” Henderson yelled from down below the ring apron.

Then Johnson hit him hard on the side of his head with a punch he almost didn’t see coming. He went backward and another one slammed into his ribs down low on his left side, and he felt a hard pain, and then he was against the rope, and Johnson was trying to take his head off, was all over him, and Wayne tried to go sideways and was able to land a couple of shots that caused Johnson to back off long enough for him to get a little breather. His wind was going already. He was starting to realize that this was a pretty stupid thing to do. He could get hurt here for nothing, real easy.

Johnson stopped in the middle of the ring and Wayne was vaguely aware that more and more people were coming inside the building because they were getting louder. They’d started drifting in when he’d walked out in borrowed shorts and boxing shoes and headgear. More had gathered while Joe Montesi put the gloves on him and taped them up, wrapping them tightly on his wrists. But he wasn’t going to stop and see how many spectators there were. They were starting to yell, though:

“Come on, Johnson! Smoke his ass!”

“Show him what the marines are made out of, man!”

Wayne tapped out with his jab, searching, and stuck it hard in Johnson’s face a couple of times, and then Johnson hit him in the balls.

It made him instantly sick to his stomach, and it felt like it flipped over, and he even heard a few boos from the crowd, which spoke well for some of the marines, he guessed, but then since he expected the bell to ring, or for somebody to call time, he forgot for just a crucial second to protect himself, and Johnson’s glove came right into his face, and he saw fire for a second, and all he could do was grab hold of the man in front of him through a red mist, and pin his arms, and stagger around with him. He thought he was going to throw up. He was trying not to. But he sure wanted to.

“Pussy,” Johnson said into his ear.

“Dirty son of a bitch!” he heard Henderson yell.

Johnson’s headgear was rubbing up against his cheek and then Wayne felt the laces scrub across his face. This guy was as dirty a fighter as he’d been up against. Johnson was hitting him on the back of the head, rabbit-punching the shit out of him. Lousy bastard. But two could play.

“Time!” he heard Joe Montesi yell. “Time, Johnson!”

Then there was a lot of yelling and talking down on the floor and the old man was between them with his arms spreading them apart, saying: “Don’t hit, don’t hit, time, time!”

Johnson turned loose of him and walked away.

The old man’s worried face was in front of him, and Wayne could see the tiny old wounds that told of his own years in the ring. The scar tissue was thick around his eyes, and Johnson was leaning in the corner with his glove on the top rope. The marines were yelling and Wayne blew his breath out a few times and walked around in a little circle. His balls were killing him. He looked out past the ring apron and the whole place was full of marines, some in uniform, but most not. He could tell from the haircuts, their youth and their hard young faces, and some of them had beers in their hands and were smoking cigarettes. Smoke was starting to gather in the air above the ring. He couldn’t see Henderson, then he did, waving, yelling to him, but covered by human bodies in jeans and pea coats and sweaters and tank tops and he was drinking a beer, too. And they were betting. There was money held in hands and they were yelling louder and louder and more people were coming in through the front door. It was turning into a party. They’d emptied out of all those barracks he and Henderson had walked past this afternoon. Bored to death. Nothing to do. Writing letters home. Wanting to be home. Drinking beer at the PX. No women.

Joe Montesi was following him around, touching him on the elbow, asking him: “You all right, sailor? I’ll give you as long a break as you need. This ain’t nothin’ but a sparrin’ match. He done hit you low but I don’t think he meant to.”

“Whatever,” Wayne said through his mouthpiece. He shifted it around some with his tongue. His whole mouth was filled up with it. But the pain was starting to ease a bit. He wasn’t going to throw up. But he was going to be sore for the rest of the fight. And there wasn’t a thing anybody could do about it.

“How about just give me a few minutes,” Wayne said.

“Take what you need,” the old man said.

So he did, and walked around in the ring, swinging his gloves lightly, eyeing Johnson in the corner, who was leaned over the rope talking to some of his buddies, who were yelling and shouting happily at him.

He saw the colonel, too. He had taken his piss cutter off to expose his large gray head and he was standing against a wall with a space cleared of bodies in front of him, except for a couple of older enlisted men in dress greens with long stacks of red chevrons on their sleeves who stood beside him, guys who’d been in as long as the colonel. Master sergeants or gunnies or sergeants major maybe. They were all looking at him and they weren’t yelling like the younger marines. They were just standing there next to the old colonel and looking at Wayne. Sizing him up. He couldn’t tell if they approved of the low blow or not.

“Hey, Wayne, hey, Wayne! You all right?”

Henderson had crowded up to the ring apron and he stuck his face underneath the bottom rope. He was almost hopping up and down. Wayne walked over there and looked down at him.

“I will be,” he said. “They betting, huh?”

“Hell yes they bettin’! I got fifty dollars on you myself, man! With this dude right over…” He turned to look for somebody in the crowd. He pointed rapidly. “This dude right over here. My man Julian from Boston. He knows where the steak house is!”

Wayne looked where he was pointing. Some blond young guy with a California tan and a beer in his hand and a flowered shirt and khaki pants grinned and waved his beer at him.

“Johnson done told all his buddies he gonna knock you out. “They bettin’ if he can or can’t. I’m bettin’ he can’t. How’s your balls?”

“Like they went up in my throat,” Wayne said. “You got me some water for between rounds?”

“I got it, man. Joe give it to me.”

“Okay.”

He turned away from Henderson and the noise level steadily rose. When he walked back to Joe Montesi, it went up to a scream.

Johnson was going up and down on his toes in his corner. Wayne turned to Joe Montesi.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

“Time!” Montesi yelled, and Johnson moved out toward him. As soon as he got close enough to him, Wayne punched him square in the balls, and Johnson curled up hugging his jewels with his gloves and hit the canvas with his eyes closed. More boos went up, even louder than before. Wayne walked away and looked over at the colonel. It was easy to see that he was infuriated. But one of the old sergeants grinned at Wayne and said something to one of his buddies and the buddy grinned, too.

It only got louder while Johnson slowly got back on his feet and took his own walk around the ring. But Wayne thought the message had been passed since Johnson gave him a grudging pissed-off nod.

By then you couldn’t have gotten any more marines in there with a shoehorn. They were wall to wall and they’d even crowded in close to the colonel and his cohorts. They were packed all around the ring apron, and Wayne could see a couple of well-pressed MPs with pistols on their belts and white stripes on their helmets standing guard at the door.

When Montesi called time again, Johnson rushed at him, swinging at his head, and Wayne closed with him in the center of the ring. He could feel Johnson’s gloves slamming hard against him, all over him, too many punches to count, but he doubled over just a little and kept his gloves close to his face and fired from there, short hooks and jabs that slapped the leather on Johnson’s face. The marines were going crazy and the sound rattled against the roof. Wayne drifted to another place he went to when he fought, where he could focus and block out everything else. He slammed Johnson’s face with one hard right after another and stood easy on his feet and leaned against him and worked on his ribs, and heard the breath grunt out of him each time he hit him. Montesi rang time and had to get between them again. Johnson’s face was red and he was saying something to Wayne that he couldn’t understand as he turned away.

“Fuck you, son of a bitch,” Wayne said.

There weren’t any stools in the corners. No place to rest between rounds. Rounds? Hell, it wasn’t a match. There weren’t supposed to be stools. But when he looked out at those faces around the ring, he knew exactly what it was. It was the marines against the navy.

So he rested his forearms on the top rope and drank a little of the water that Henderson gave him, and talked to him, and decided he could go about one more round and that would be it. Whatever they said. This was bullshit and he was tired of it.

He leaned down to Henderson and gave him the water back and said: “One more round and let’s get our asses out of here. I’m about ready for that steak.”

“It’s your call, Wayne.”

When Montesi called time again, Wayne could barely hear it for the yelling. Johnson moved close to him and peppered him with jabs, and Wayne backed up and let him come on. The jabs were landing on his shoulders and his face and he knew his face was getting red. His breath was coming harder and his arms were getting heavy. His forearms were tight and his hands felt cramped. And then some sweat got in his eye and he got caught with a hard right hook on the jaw. It jarred his whole head. As hard a punch as he’d ever felt. He started to turn and jab back but a fluid feeling almost like heat passed across the back of his head. His vision blurred for just a second and he didn’t see the next one coming and didn’t know he was down until the canvas slammed him in the back of the head. Then there was a roaring in his ears and the next thing he saw was the lights overhead tilting and sliding and going out of focus.

“I don’t know where in the hell you put it,” Wayne said.

“Hoo,” Henderson said. “Have mercy.”

Wayne caught the waitress’s eye and held up his beer mug. He was still working on his T-bone, and there was a small nagging pain at the back of his head, but he hadn’t said anything about it. And Henderson hadn’t said anything about him getting knocked out. He was glad for that.

He picked up his knife again and sawed a few more pieces away from the bone. He reached for the A.1. sauce and dribbled some of it over the steak.

“What time’s your flight?” he said.

Henderson had it memorized.

“Ten-twenty. Flight two thirteen, Northwest. What time you got to catch the bus?”

“Shit. Eight o’clock. I thought maybe we could ride back to town together but I don’t want you to have to leave early ’cause of me.”

“I can come on in to town early. We can get some breakfast.”

Wayne picked up a piece of steak and put it in his mouth. The waitress brought his beer and she was a cutie but not as cute as Anjalee.

“How you guys doing?” she said. “Can I take that stuff for you?” she said to Henderson.

“Yes, ma’am. Can I get a piece of that chocolate fudge cake with some vanilla ice cream on it?”

“He’s a bottomless pie hole,” Wayne told her.

She laughed and picked up Henderson’s plate and his salad bowl and went away to get his dessert. It was getting on in the evening and people were starting to clear out of the place some. Waitresses were setting up other tables. At the bar the bartender was wiping glasses and telling customers good night as they went out.

Wayne ate two more bites and then pushed his plate back away from him.

“I’m about to die,” he said. He picked up his beer and took a sip from it, then set it down and toyed with the handle.

“Hey, man, I got somethin’ for you,” Henderson said, and reached into his pea coat, which was folded on the seat beside him. He took out an envelope and opened the flap and pulled out a small stack of pictures.

The waitress brought his cake and ice cream and he looked up and said Thank you ma’am and she went away. He was going through the pictures, looking at all of them, taking his time. Finally he picked one out and handed it across.