Champion of the World (9 page)

T
hey fought in a circle of men holding schooners and waving dollar bills. Both Pepper and Greenchain Charlie stripped off their shirts and hung them on barstools, the bigger man already glistening with sweat. As he stared across the circle at him pacing back and forth, Pepper's throat felt so dry it was hard to swallow. He took a swig of beer, but it only made his mouth feel gummy and hot. He bounced on his toes trying to get his blood moving. A man with just stumps for his two middle fingers was trying to find a taker on a bet for a plug of Peerless chewing tobacco.

“I'll take that bet,” Pepper told him. They shook on it, the guy's two mutilated fingers as hard as hickory sticks in his hand.

The noise reached a crescendo as one of the lumbermen came to the center of the circle with his handkerchief raised and called out, “Fight!”

Pepper thought Greenchain Charlie might storm out wild and start swinging, but instead the big man stalked from side to side, looking unexpectedly light on his feet. Pepper knew enough about boxing to flick out some jabs to gauge the distance, popping Greenchain Charlie's head back with a couple of them. In response, the big man just smiled at him. They circled for another minute before the crowd started to razz them, calling out that they wanted a fight, not a staring competition.

A couple of times the big man came forward with lunging punches and Pepper slipped them by feinting his head to one side or the other. As each blow missed, he could see Greenchain Charlie's brow knot tighter with frustration. The big man pushed forward, closing off the space, trying to trap Pepper with his bulk; but he just took a half step back and slithered out of the way again, hoping he was making it look casual and effortless to the men watching.
Finally, after finding only empty space in front of him again and again, Greenchain Charlie got fed up and tried to take Pepper's head off with one massive, wild swing.

As soon as Pepper saw him plant his feet to throw it, he ducked under for a double leg tackle. It was a clean shot, beautiful and pure and lightning quick, and even as he moved he heard the crowd hush, the breath caught in its throat. He almost grinned at how easily he got inside on the big man, ducking his head to one side and locking his hands behind the hips. It wasn't until he pivoted on his back foot and tried to drive his weight forward that he realized Greenchain Charlie had greased his body with lard.

The raw animal stink filled his nostrils, a fatty daub smearing across his cheek as his grip slipped. Greenchain Charlie threw a ripping uppercut into his throat and he stumbled back, choking. The big man was on him before he could recover, backing him through the circle of men and against the wall with a series of hard jabs and a wide hook to the body that felt like it had caved in his rib cage. Greenchain Charlie pinned him against the wall, grinding one massive forearm into his face until it broke his nose.

Pain flashed white behind his eyes as warm blood spilled down his throat. He staggered, trying to throw a last, blind punch that missed everything as he went down on his hands and knees. The whole room went sideways, the heat of it suddenly suffocating. His blood poured into the sawdust between his hands. The crowd turned loose a thunderous roar and he saw the group of lumberjacks he'd been drinking with just a few minutes earlier celebrating and hugging each other. The man with one arm in a sling was up on a chair, laughing and waving a fistful of dollar bills in his good hand. He saw Moira screaming, trying to get to him as another man held her back. A fiery hatred bloomed in his chest. He tried to stand, but his legs were rubber and wouldn't take his weight.

He went down again and there was an awkward moment where
no one knew what to do. They hadn't talked about how it would end. The uncertainty lasted just a heartbeat before Greenchain Charlie rushed forward and kicked him in the side, the force of it flipping him onto his back. The big man pinned a knee across his chest, crushing the air out of his lungs. The first punch was a thunderbolt that landed on his left cheekbone, knocking the back of his skull against the floor. The second punch turned everything black. The third punch he didn't feel at all.

H
e woke up to rain on his face and for a second made the mistake of believing he was okay. The sky was cool gray and the ground was freezing, his arms and legs trembling. The pain didn't hit him until he tried to move, poison and sickness wracking his body, his stomach clenching like a fist as he sat up and dry heaved into the dirt. Bile burned raw in the back of his throat, the taste of rotten beer sticky on his tongue.

“Oh, what dog,” he laughed, and then trailed off, leaving the
shit in my mouth
part unsaid when he saw he was sitting in a patch of wet black earth in an otherwise deserted field.

He pushed himself to his feet, pain lancing his ribs, the beating he'd taken the night before returning to him in a dim flash. When he ran his hands through his hair they came back flaked with bloody sawdust and he wiped them on his pants. From the tire tracks and trampled weeds he knew that yesterday this place had been the circus lot. Now the wind moved across it, whipping the grass, rustling trees on the opposite end of the clearing.

Empty.

His swollen face beat a dull pulse, the gears in his brain finding purchase, and he knew: They'd left him.

Something yellow and sickly-looking scrambled across the
ground near his feet. It was his shirt collar, dirty and misshapen, and he bent to pick it up, the dizzy feeling welling up in him all over again. He'd heard of this happening to men in other troupes, guys who'd royally screwed up getting let off at the side of some lonely country road, or ditched while they ducked in to use the washroom at a filling station. But not him. He thought of Moira, half hoping to see her walk down the hill from town carrying mugs of coffee and breakfast plates. Would she have just left him along with the rest? After all this time?

He turned and saw their steamer trunk sitting in the dirt like a tiny silver coffin. The sight of it loosed another memory from the depths: Hedgeweg the Colossus carrying it out of the trailer, dropping it on the ground in this very spot while Moira cried and begged him not to do it. He couldn't remember the strongman's face or if he'd said anything. He didn't know if Markham had read him the riot act. Maybe not. The carnival barker wouldn't have had to say a word after Pepper pissed away a hundred dollars of his money.

He found he could walk so long he kept a palm braced on his ribs. At least one was definitely broken. He'd have to try not to breathe too much. The lock on the trunk was broken, so he used the toe of his boot to lift the lid. Markham had certainly rifled through it in search of any valuables he could find to offset his loss. Their good wool blanket was gone. Inside were a few of his shirts and the cigar box where he'd stashed the pistol. As he picked it up he could tell from the weight that the gun was gone, too. Cursing, he kicked the side of the trunk and immediately regretted it. He slammed the lid shut and sat down on top of it to let the pain pass, smelling the stomach-turning stench of alcohol, smoke and sweat on his skin. He was about to lie back on the trunk when his wounded brain clicked into place again.
The
lock was broken.
That meant Moira refused to open it for Markham. He picked his head up, scanning the horizon—hoping, hoping—and his heart nearly stopped when she stepped out of the
tree line fifty yards off. She was wrapped in the wool blanket, and as she got closer he saw she had the pistol in her hand.

“They marooned us,” he said.

“Look at you,” she said. “Just back from the dead and already stating facts.”

“Give me that gun.”

“Demands, too,” she said, handing it over. “Here you are, my love, just shoot us both and save us the indignity.”

He sat back down on the hard metal and rested the gun in his lap. After a moment he lay back across the trunk. The coolness felt good on his ribs. He tested his face with his fingertips, finding the sore, swollen spots and pushing hard enough to know nothing was broken. Moira sat, too, holding his mashed face in her hands as he stared up at the smooth, mother-of-pearl clouds. He could feel the anger in her like hot straight wire.

“You're the dumbest man I ever married,” she said, stroking his hair. “You know that?”

T
he mill manager had a nervous laugh. Every time Pepper started in on what he was going to do to Boyd Markham when they caught up to him, it escaped his lips in girlish little puffs. The mill manager wore wire-rimmed glasses that he kept adjusting with his fingertips, a nervous tic that reminded Pepper of the marionettes the circus puppeteers carved out of wood. They were in his office on the second floor of the mill's administration building, and out the window they could see the looming hulk of the saw house. About a half hour after Pepper had woken up, a couple of mill workers had found them in the field and brought them there. Now he and Moira sat in a matching set of small, creaky metal chairs while the mill manager peered over his big battleship desk at them, laughing
and touching his spectacles. It made Pepper think of the orphanage, the way some of the brothers there were barely older than the kids themselves. A few of them couldn't hide how thrilled and terrified they were by their own power. They would stand up in front of a classroom and fiddle as they lectured on history or arithmetic or some other nonsense, touching things, arranging and rearranging the items on the lectern. The mill manager was a big, handsome man, but soft, precious in his gestures, with his free hand tap, tap, tapping the butt of a pencil on his ink blotter.

“Could you sue?” he asked them. “Breach of contract, something like that?”

Pepper grimaced. “Are you serious?” he said.

Moira rested a hand on his knee.

“I see.” The mill manager took off his glasses and polished the lenses on the folds of his white linen shirt.

Pepper fought back the urge to rip the glasses from his hands and stomp on them. His eyes shifted to the big bay windows, where two men in overalls were at work stacking a pile of freshly cut planks in the yard below, their caps battened tight against the rain. He watched as one said something to the other and jerked his thumb toward the window. They both turned, eyes peering up to the mill manager's office, and then laughed. He reminded himself how decent the mill manager had been so far, bringing them in and getting his office girl to bring them hot coffee and slices of buttered bread. The chill of the morning was just now draining out of his bones.

“Would you even know where to look?” the mill manager said. “To find them, I mean?”

“They'll make the jump up to Seattle,” Moira said. “Maybe hold over for another night if Boyd can find a venue and thinks he can squeeze an extra dime out of it. Then they'll load everyone back on the trucks and haul the whole kit and caboodle back to New York for winter quarters.”

“But as you yourself have explained,” the mill manager said, “is there even any use in chasing them down if they don't want you?”

“We've got to head that way anyway,” she said. “That, or south to Portland. Someplace we can catch a train. If we could find them before they go back east, there's a chance we could make amends.”

“And what?” Pepper said, shifting in his seat to try to ease the ache in his ribs. “Beg forgiveness?”

“What's your plan?” she said. “Scout the want ads? See if anybody's advertising for a thirty-five-year-old carnival wrestler with a busted face and a bad attitude?”

“There are options,” he said. “We have options.”

“We don't, my dear,” she said. “We have no money and no plan and no prospects.”

“You know we do,” Pepper said. The truth was, the idea of it had been picking up speed in his mind ever since Fritz Mundt had shown up in San Francisco.

“You will not,” she said. “You will not call that man.”

“Suppose you recovered the money you lost,” the mill manager cut in. “Would that help?”

“From the asshole who cheated me?” Pepper said. “Did I tell you he was greased up?”

“You mentioned that,” the mill manager said.

Pepper nodded. “Like a well-buttered eel,” he said, almost to himself.

“If you like, I'll have him brought here,” the mill manager said. “He might've drunk away some of the money by now, but a good bit of it is still most likely on his person.”

“It might help,” Moira said.

“No,” Pepper said. “I got no beef with him. He beat me. It was my job not to let that happen, no matter what.”

Their bickering made the mill manager look uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. “Suppose I could put you on here,” he said.

That was a surprise. Even from across the yard, Pepper could feel the whir of the saw house vibrating the floorboards under their feet, hear the occasional screech of metal and thump of wood. He thought of the men he'd seen in town. Their overalls damp and cracked, scarred hands and missing fingers, chunks of skin torn from arms and necks. The idea of slaving and sweating all day inside the steel walls of the mill, or even somewhere outside, deep in the forest with a saw on his hip, living for a drink in the saloon after his shift, only turned up the heat on his hangover.

“The only thing I've ever done is wrestle,” he said.

“This isn't exactly intricate work we're talking about,” the mill manager said.

“We appreciate the offer,” Moira said. “But we couldn't do it.”

The mill manager pulled open a desk drawer and took out a long leather book. He flipped it open on the blotter and scribbled, then ripped out a thin sheet and passed it across the desk. It was twenty-five dollars. Pepper looked at it and handed it to Moira, who smiled in a way that broke his heart.

“What are we going to do with a check?” she asked.

The mill manager sighed. Pepper wondered if the man had a wife here, or children. There was a hint of East Coast schooling in his voice, his manners too refined for a guy who managed a rough-and-tumble timber camp in the middle of nowhere. It struck him that perhaps this wasn't what the mill manager had imagined for himself as a younger man. Maybe he understood how things happened, how choices were made and things changed slowly over time, until one day you realized you'd started out heading for one place and wound up somewhere completely different.

“What will you do, then?” the mill manager said. “Where's home for you?”

Pepper put his hand on Moira's. “Back to New York, I suppose,” he said.

It was a lie. The first thing Markham would do was wire Brooklyn to cancel their room at the Hotel St. Agnes, maybe have their things thrown out in the street. His eyes moved up to her face. She knew there was no place for them back there. Not anymore.

“You've had this idea now and you're not going to let go of it,” she said. “Are you?”

“It's the only way,” he said. “It's all we've got.”

Her shoulders slumped and she worked her jaw from side to side, staring at something in the middle of the floor. “Fine,” she said. “But when it all comes out in the wash, I want it noted for the permanent record what a stupid idea I said this was.”

He turned back to the mill manager. “Is there a telephone in this place?”

The mill manager said his office girl would show him. As Pepper let the door to the office swing shut behind him he heard Moira say: “This isn't normal for us.”

“I'm sure,” the mill manager said. Pepper could almost see him fingering his glasses.

The office girl was a curvy brunette with thick ankles underneath a navy-blue skirt and white blouse. She took him through a cramped hallway and down a creaking flight of stairs to an out-of-the-way room on the building's first floor. Inside, an old man with a two-day beard stooped over floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with dusty ledgers and invoice stacks. With fingers dotted in ink he showed Pepper the telephone.

“Only one for twenty-five miles,” he said, like Pepper had come down there just to look.

Fritz Mundt's card was the only thing left in his wallet. He did his best not to think about that part as he unfolded the card and held it up to the light to make out the numbers. The operator was in Portland and it took some time for her to make the connection. The phone rang for a long time and Pepper was about to tell her to forget
it when he heard a click and then that unmistakable voice echoing somewhere out in all that static. It took a moment for Fritz to figure out who was calling and for them both to be sure they could hear each other.