Breaker (13 page)

What happens afterward is chaos. It takes a while for the high to wear off, for the pain to return to my side. There are hands everywhere, patting me on the shoulder. Yelling is coming from different sections—the Disciples unhappy, the Kings unhappy, a few pistols drawn and then put away as some fists land here and there. But if they want to come back, get a shot at the next fight, they need to behave—so they do. In time they quiet down, as Edson leads me away from the ring and to the office, the locker room, where he slowly pulls the tape off my hands, the outer layer red, turning to pink the more he unwraps my fists, and finally back to a dingy white on the very inside. I drop the rolls of quarters on the ground and open my hands, clenching and unclenching them, nothing broken, rubbing them together—the pain radiating out from the center of each palm.

“You did good. Real good,” he says.

We're alone in the room, the crowd outside drinking and celebrating; the ones that bet on me, anyway.

There's no sign of Stephanie. In the bedlam she disappeared, but I'm not surprised. If she doesn't owe somebody some serious coin, I'd be shocked.

“I got somebody that can look at that cut,” Eddy says, his hand reaching out to my side, but I flinch and retreat.

“No, it's okay,” I say. “Slap some gauze on there and I'll deal with it later.”

“Gauze,” he says leaning over. “Ray, there may be internal injuries, an organ sliced open. We need to get you to a hospital. I got a guy—”

“No,” I say. “Not going to happen. I walk into a building like that, looking like this, and there will be questions. People remember me, even if you do have someone on the inside.”

His mouth hangs open.

“Ray, you can't fuck around with this.”

“I know,” I say. “The gauze, tape, and bandage? Can you do that for me?”

“Sure. Sure. Hold on,” he says, walking toward a supply cabinet, still eyeballing me.

He comes back and wipes off my gut with a wet paper towel, lays some dry gauze over it, the blood immediately starting to seep through, and then more gauze, and then tape, and then a massive bandage that sticks to my skin. He rubs down the cut on my leg and places a large Band-Aid on it—it's just a flesh wound, nothing major.

“That should hold you until you get home. Get dressed.”

I nod my head.

“Can I ask you for one more favor, Eddy?”

“Sure, Ray, anything.”

“Can I get a lift? I don't think I'll make it to a bus to an el train back to my apartment.”

“No worries,” he says. “I'm out back. Hold on one second.”

He opens the door and slips back into the warehouse, the noise deafening, and then it clicks shut, quiet. I slowly get dressed, afraid to sit down, to bend at all, trying not to stretch so I don't reopen my wound. By the time Eddy gets back I've got my clothes put on, my jacket unzipped, ready to go.

“Let's go,” he says. “Out this way—let's take this exit.”

A door at the rear of the building opens to a parking lot, where a few kids are smoking up and pounding beers, a cheer coming from some of them as they run up to me, jabbering about the fight,
goddamn, brother
and
did you see that knife
and
motherfucker, you big,
and Eddy laughs at them, pushing them away gently, telling them
it's all good, thanks, gotta go,
all of that.

His aging maroon Buick Regal sits at the far edge of the pavement, where the tar and concrete are worn away, turned into gravel, a hole in the fence big enough to drive through.

“Special VIP treatment, yo,” he laughs, taking on the voice of the kids.

“Word,” I say and I laugh for a moment, the stitch in my side aching. I turn and spit a wad of yellow phlegm, tinged with red.

Eddy's face gets serious.

“Keep an eye on that, okay? Your spit, your snot, your piss, your crap—you see blood, a lot of it, see a doctor right away, I don't care about the consequences. Go over to Resurrection and see Dr. Hall, and he'll take care of you. A little blood today and tomorrow, no longer than three days, and you're probably okay.”

We stand by his car and I nod.

“Get in, and I'll take you home.”

We drive in silence. Cramped in the front seat, my knees are up almost to my chin, the seat pushed as far back as possible, reclined until the bandage feels okay.

The fight plays in front of my eyes, one thing after another, my shoulder throbbing, my side a hot burning sensation, my thigh stinging.

“They all survive?” I ask.

“Not sure,” Eddy replies. “That knife in the neck looked bad, but the medics were on him quickly. The kid in blue, he's got some broken wrists, arm maybe, and a jaw for sure. That thing was hanging off his face crooked as an old screen door,” Eddy says, cackling. “Frat boy got a busted nose, but that's about it, and the rich boy nothing but scratches and scrapes from the angry crowd.”

I swallow and stare out the window.

“Well, here we are,” he says suddenly, at the back of my apartment. “It's not that late, figured the back is better than the front. You need me to help you up?”

“Nah, I'm good,” I say, opening the door. The light clicks on inside the car, and suddenly Eddy looks much older, the wrinkles in his face more pronounced, his liver-spotted hands trembling, his eyes rheumy and red.

“Was worried about you in there, son,” he says. “When I saw him flick his knife over, wasn't sure you noticed, didn't want to see that pointing out of your face.”

“Occupational hazard,” I mumble. “But thanks.”

“Here, this is yours,” he says, holding out a brown paper sack, like he's sending me off to school—peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off, Cheetos, and an apple juice, a tiny Snickers resting at the bottom. “Your cut from tonight. Almost fifty grand.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Guess a lot of suckers wanted to see you lose.”

“Guess so,” I say. “Do you, I mean, your action, do they…”

“I'm fine. Got mine, boyo, I always do.”

I take the bag and then a slow breath, pain in my ribs.

“So, is this it then?” he asks. “You running now? I would. Fuck it. Get out of Dodge. You're still pretty young.”

“I don't know, Eddy. I really don't. Maybe. My sister…”

“Fuck your sister,” he says. “No offense.”

More and more I feel like maybe he's right.

“There's this girl next door, Natalie…” I say.

“And?” he asks.

“Just want to make sure she's okay before I go. You're right about one thing: I may be pretty young still, but I'm getting older every day. If I keep at this, the ring, the gangs, it's only a matter of time before the police show up, or one of the Disciples drives by and takes a shot or twelve. After tonight, yeah, I can't say it'll get any better. Now the Kings have me on their radar, even though I didn't touch their boy.”

Eddy nods.

“I can hear the clock ticking, Ray. Seems you can, too.”

I hold out my huge, swollen hand and he shakes it gently, being careful not to crush his long, bony fingers, my body still vibrating and shaking from the fight.

“When it's time, Edson, I'll send you a text. I owe you that at least.”

“Thanks.”

And like that, I lean out of the car and slam the door shut. I take one slow step at a time, up and up, the pain radiating out from my chest, and I start to sweat. I see the old man looking up and give him a head nod, a wave of my hand, and he's gone.

Not sure I'll ever see him again.

At the back door, I fumble with my keys, my head spinning after the trip up the stairs, and I can feel the blood trickling down my stomach and that's not good. I drop the keys and they clatter to the floor, and I curse, leaning against the door now, as the urchin slips out of her apartment and picks them up, still in jeans and a sweatshirt.

Blackhawks.

“You're hurt,” she whispers, inserting the key and pushing it open. “Get inside.”

I listen.

I peel off my jacket, sweating like a pig, and lumber on down the hall toward the couch. I pull off my sweatshirt as I go and drop it in the hall, my T-shirt next, and then collapse into a pile on the cushions. The bandage has shifted and blood is seeping out, the gauze soaked through.

“Oh my God,” Natalie gasps. She runs to the kitchen, coming back with a roll of paper towels and the white plastic garbage can.

“I think I need your help,” I say, as my head swims. She pulls off a few paper towels and folds them into a large square, then sets it on the table.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she says.

She pulls off the soaked bandage, cringing, and drops it into the garbage can, and the wound puckers open, seeping blood. She presses the paper towels down.

“Hold this,” she says.

She runs to the kitchen to get some disinfectant, coming back with hydrogen peroxide and a pint of whiskey from under the sink.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Yes,” I moan. She opens the liquor and hands it to me, and I guzzle some down. It calms me a little bit, and I motion her closer.

“Needle and thread, in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. You have to stitch me up.”

She stares at me for a moment and pauses, my heart pounding in my chest, and then she nods, and scampers off to get the supplies.

I lift the towels up and splash the hydrogen peroxide on the wound, and it stings like a motherfucker. I wince and feel the liquid run down into my sweats and underwear. I place the towels back on the wound and hold it tight.

Natalie comes back with a needle, black thread already shoved through the eye, holding it in her right hand, a gleam in her eye.

“You know how to make a stitch?” I ask.

“Done plenty of socks,” she says. “This about the same?”

“About.” I nod. “It might get messy,” I say.

“I know. I'm not a wimp.”

She sits down next to me, and I lift up the paper towel. The bleeding slowed down for a moment.

“Lots of tiny stitches,” I say, “to keep it closed tight. Make sure you stick the needle in about a quarter inch away from the cut, so it doesn't tear later when I'm moving around. And don't push into me too far—keep the tip at the surface. I don't need you sewing my liver to my kidney,” I add, laughing gently, coughing, a bit of blood on my lip, which I wipe off with my hand.

She pales a little.

“Got it.”

I take a deep pull at the whiskey, pause, and then knock back the rest of the pint, sitting up straight.

“You ready?” I ask.

“Are you?” she says.

I nod my head and she leans over, her hands shaking as she inserts the tip of the needle into my stomach, pushing it through the other side, pulling it through, bloody, tugging the thread tight. I don't realize I'm holding my breath. I exhale, my skin burning, just one of several dozen stitches to come.

“Good. Keep going. I'm going to close my eyes.”

I lean back, and I feel one tiny hand on my stomach, the other pushing the needle back into my flesh. In and out, back and forth, she keeps going, the needle pinching at my skin, an angry crab picking away at my side. In no time at all, she's done.

I don't remember Natalie leaving, just finding my way to my bed, lying down, the pain in my side fading but still stinging, her setting a glass of water and a handful of aspirin next to my bed, telling me to drink it, to take the meds, leaving me and sneaking out the back door, the apartment quiet, the click of the lock engaging the last thing I hear.

I send her out for some supplies over the next few days, stronger pain medicine and more bandages, soup and some ham and turkey, some bread and cheese, and Gatorade. She doesn't say a word about the bag of cash on the kitchen table, just takes a few twenties and heads down to the market. I leave the back door open and she comes and goes as she pleases.

“Your mom and dad okay? They say anything, notice you stopping over here?”

“No, they're clueless.”

“Good,” I say.

She takes care of me, and I can tell it's one of the most important things she's ever done. When was the last time she took care of something, someone else? Normally she's just finding a way to survive, to protect herself from the adults around her, the punks in the neighborhood, the harpies she follows home from school.

She's a trouper.

On the third day, there's a knock at the door, and I'm not surprised. I've got a list of people in mind, Eddy, Stephanie, perhaps the parents from next door, but no, I was not expecting this.

Police.

“Doesn't anybody buzz anymore?” I ask.

“We're talking to people in the area, sir. One of your neighbors let us in. I'm Officer Billie Delmar, and this is Officer Mike Williams.”

Two of them, one tall with red hair, skinny and pale, Delmar, the other black as night, a big guy, but not as big as me. Must be Williams.

“You Ray? Raymond Nelson?” the redhead asks, holding a notebook in his hand, flipping through the pages.

“Yeah. What can I do for you?”

“Do you mind if we come in for a moment?” he asks.

“Actually, I do mind. What do you need?”

Officer Williams leans in, taking a step closer to the door.

“We have some reports in the area about a fight club or something, gang members got shot up on the street the other day, and there was that white van you might have heard about. Does any of this ring a bell?”

“Heard about the van, not the rest. Somebody's always getting shot around here.”

I cross my arms and fill up the doorway.

“Mike, you smell something, is that weed?” the skinny ghost asks.

“Might be, Billie. Sir, could you step back, please? We have reason to believe there is marijuana in your apartment, so we need to come in and look around now.”

“Probable cause,” Delmar sneers.

They knock me back and come in, Delmar pushing me up against the wall.

“Hey, what the hell…”

“Just stand there, asshole,” Delmar says. “And this won't take any time at all. I mean, you've got nothing to hide, right?”

I squint at him and take a breath.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment. There's no weed in here….”

“Shut up!”
Delmar yells in my face, his left hand on my chest, my neck, pushing me against the wall, holding me there, the other hand unsnapping his gun and pulling it out. “You hear something from the other room, Williams? Go take a look.”

Williams unholsters his weapon and goes farther into the apartment.

“You own a white van, Nelson? Drive one recently? You like little girls, is that it? You look like the type.”

“Fuck you,” I say. “I don't have a car at all.”

He steps back from me and holsters his gun.

“You gonna do anything stupid?” he asks.

“Do I look stupid?”

He hesitates.

“Where's your license?”

“My ID is in my pocket. Told you, I don't have a driver's license.”

“Pull it out slowly, and don't get cute.”

I reach into my sweatpants pull out the state ID, and hand it to him. He clicks on his radio at his left shoulder and steps away from me, talking into it, reading off my information. Williams is in the kitchen now, looking around, opening drawers, and then he's in my bedroom, the door open, rooting around.

The gun. Fuck.

The money is in the back of the closet, most of it, in a sock, in a shoe box, in a suitcase, under a bunch of old sweaters. But the gun, I forgot about that.

He steps back out and rattles the door to Mother's room.

“What's in here?” he yells. “Why's it locked?

I don't say anything. I tense up and Delmar puts his eyes back on me, talking into the microphone.

“Where's the key, Nelson?” Officer Williams asks.

The gun, the money, but most important—Mother. I have to make a decision quickly and the options are bad and worse. Motion to my right and I turn my head.

“Hey, Ray, what's going on?”

It's Natalie, still in her winter coat, hat on, gloves—her eyes on me and then to the cops.

“Honey, move along—we're talking to your neighbor.”

“I can see that,” she says. “Ray's a good guy. Why are you harassing him?”

The cops stop what they're doing and walk to the door, shit-eating grins on their faces.

“Listen, sweetheart…” Delmar starts in.

“Did he do something? Is he in trouble?”

They look at each other and laugh.

“Miss, you've heard about the white van, the girl that got killed, right?”

“Yes. She was a friend of mine,” Natalie says.

The officers stop for a moment, Williams rubbing his face.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he says. “There have been shootings in the area recently, some fights going on at night, we're looking into…”

“Ray's a teddy bear,” she says, walking in and giving me a hug. Sweat runs down the inside of my armpits. “He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Delmar hands me back my state ID.

“The door, Mr. Nelson?” he asks.

“The keys are in the kitchen drawer,” Natalie says. “Ray's got nothing to hide. He's a good guy—I know that for sure.”

I turn my head to her and she nods at me.

“I help him clean up sometimes, to earn a little extra money,” Natalie says. “That used to be his mother's room. I think he keeps it closed and locked because it makes him sad. She died a few years ago. Right, Ray?”

I find my voice, croaking out an answer.

“Yes, Natalie. That's true, but there's no reason for them…”

“It's okay, Ray,” she says, staring hard at me. “You don't have any secrets from me. I know you've been sad. And that there's nothing to hide.”

To the officers she says, “Trust me,” but she's eyeballing me the whole time. “There's nothing in that room to worry about.”

Officer Williams returns from the kitchen with the keys and clicks open the room as I tense up, ready to run.

“Delmar, come see this!” he yells, and the other cop walks over, his eyes on us. When he steps inside, I turn to Natalie.

“It's okay,” she says. “I took care of it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

The cops step out of the room.

“Man, that room! Who was your decorator, Heidi Fleiss?” Williams says, and they both laugh. I walk toward them, and I can see inside the room, the bed empty, the wallpaper screaming out
lies, lies, lies.

“My mother,” I say.

They stand in the living room, still laughing.

“Sorry,” Williams says. “We're good here,” and walks out the front door.

Natalie clings to me as Delmar approaches.

“Stay out of trouble, Nelson,” he says, looking down at my hands. The bruises and cuts are fading, the stitch in my side throbbing. “You're a hard one to miss.”

And he's out of the apartment, so I close the door and lean against the back of it, taking in a deep breath of air.

“We need to talk, Natalie,” I say.