Word Made Flesh

25

The muscle cars are left unattended. This semicircle of obsessively preserved American chrome looks like a secret dealership that caters to a brotherhood of anal-retentive greasers. And sitting out here in the middle of the woods, in the shadow of a half-destroyed factory, it looks like the dealership has been bought out by some pagan with an inexplicable taste for tail fins and spoilers. A red tool chest, standing as tall as a jukebox and filled with an elaborate ratchet set, is open in front of a Daytona. The hood of the Dodge has been left open, as if the mechanic had been called away in the middle of a tune-up.

Gilrein starts to look in on the engine when the sound comes to him. It’s muted and slightly distant, but he recognizes it instantly as the specific hum born from the cojoined shrieks of sports fans engorged on someone else’s gains and losses. He turns to the Kapernaum and heads for the Houdini Lounge. The panel door is rolled up on its tracks and there’s no receptionist at the gun-check table. As he walks down the corridor toward the clubhouse, the noise of the mob gets louder. It’s possible they’ve got the TVs cranked up and are beer-ranting to a satellite transmission of two kick-boxers smashing each other to death in Thailand. But when he enters the Lounge, he finds it empty. The bar is fully covered with discarded bottles of Hunthurst Lager and the money can is overflowing with damp and crumbled bills. Dumbbells have been left on the floor in the weight room. The televisions are on, tuned to a porn channel and a dubbed Hercules movie, both playing to an empty set of couches. The stripper’s stage is abandoned but for an orange polyester waitress’s uniform left dangling from the lip.

Gilrein climbs the stairs to Oster’s office, moves to the exterior window and looks out on the origin of the crowd noise. Down by the interrogation pit, the place Oster has christened “the penal colony,” rimming the crater left by the Tung’s explosion, there must be over a hundred people. The mob is lit by the halogen spot on the roof. They’re perched on boulders and old tires and quite a few are balanced on the edge of foldout aluminum-and-mesh beach chairs. Half a dozen oil barrels are spouting flame, but they’re throwing as much smoke as light into the air. An outdoor bar has been set up directly opposite the rear of the building — a trio of kegs dispensing foam to a nonstop line of men holding all manner of improvised pitchers.

He moves down from the loft and exits the rear of the factory. The smoke and the noise and the halogen light all hit him at once and the combined effect is a little dizzying. As he walks toward the rim of the pit, he begins to recognize faces. And none of them go together. Retired police sergeants are seated next to a few midlevel flunkies from various mob houses. A district attorney’s deputy is sharing a picnic bench with one of Jimmy Tang’s favorite shooters. The Tatarka sisters, whose chop shop is known and respected from San Remo Avenue to Budapest and whose warrants for arrest are both multiple and active, are passing a bucket of fried chicken legs back and forth between the Registrar of Motor Vehicles and City Councilor Frye. It’s as if someone designated this Buried Hatchet Night at the Kapernaum. As if the Magicians have sponsored an open house as part of a membership drive.

Circulating in the midst of it all are a trio of young women, their long hair uniformly pulled back into impressive ponytails that fall through the rear opening of their kelly green baseball caps. They have matching green aprons tied around their waists and green plastic clipboards clutched in their arms. For a minute, Gilrein thinks they must be waitresses, maybe peanut vendors. Then he follows one, watches her step into a circle of drunks waving money, watches her slide a pencil from behind an ear and point to each man in turn, ordering them with her speed and demeanor, taking their cash, making change, scribbling on her notepad, handing out colored coupons, and all of it with the rote efficiency of a bank teller bucking for management. They’re making book on something and Gilrein would like to stop himself from speculating what it might be.

“Hey there, Gilly boy,” he hears, amplified by bullhorn, and turns to see Oster standing on top of a pile of broken bricks. “Get your ass over here, Gilly.”

It comes out in a good-natured, beer-driven roar, a fraternity whoop that draws an immediate share of audience attention down onto Gilrein. People start pointing and waving. Voices come out of the gaps of light.

“We knew you’d be back, G-man.”

“We saved a space for you, bro.”

“Give the bastard a beer, fer Chrissake.”

It’s like some horrible performance poem, a kind of ritual vignette fueled by testosterone and camaraderie and alcohol. And he knows he has to walk through it, so he starts to thread his way into a maze of glad-handing hombres who punch his arm and slap his back as if they’d all passed through some hellish foreign war together. He reaches the brick pile and Oster extends a hand and pulls him up to the summit.

“We need to talk,” Gilrein says.

Oster shakes his head and squints his disagreement.

“Plenty of time to talk, Gilly,” he says. “I’m just so goddamn psyched you made it. I knew — I said to Stewie and Danny— Gilrein’s in. Gilly’s one of us. You are going to love this shit.”

“Oster,” Gilrein starts to say, but immediately the crowd drowns him out with a new roar and it climbs to standing as fast as its drunken legs will allow.

Gilrein looks down to the rear of the Kapernaum, to the same exit he’s just come through, and sees the source of the cheering. Four men have stepped into the pit spotlight. Two of them he recognizes as Oster’s main creatures — Danny Walden and Stewie Green. Boy scouts as trained by Himmler. Rookies born from Satan’s anus. They’re holding the other two men in full-blown chain restraints, manacles around ankles, waists, and wrists. And an additional touch that, to the best of Gilrein’s knowledge, has never been department-sanctioned — choke-chain collars around the prisoners’ necks extending to a pull lead that Oster’s men are using like a leash, hauling the captive parties toward the center of the pit as if they were zoo stock, wild animals so feared and despised they can’t be allowed the decision of when to breathe.

Walden manipulates his choke chain to drive his prisoner down to his knees and when the mob goes loud with the noise of their unbridled pleasure, Green follows suit until both captives are facing each other in what looks like a pray-off.

Gilrein looks down on the spectacle and says, “What’s happening here?”

Oster rocks forward and back, a boy so juiced up on anticipation he may lose bladder control.

“You made it in time for the first annual Houdini Lounge Death Bowl,” Oster says, shouting over the cheers. “I think you still got time to get some coin down if you want.” He leans in close to Gilrein’s ear and adds, “the smart percentage is going with the DR. He’s small, but he’s fast as a bastard.” The voice lowers a bit. “And just between you and me, he’s going to have a little advantage.”

Walden and Green knee their charges in the side until the spotlight illuminates the faces. One prisoner looks small and muscular and Hispanic. The other is older and maybe Middle Eastern. They’re both stripped to the waist, their chests sporting what looks like fresh scarring. They’re wearing gray sweatpants that have been cut off just above the knee. And they’re barefoot.

“They’re supposed to fight?” Gilrein asks the obvious.

“They’re supposed to beat the absolute crap out of each other, Gilly,” Oster says, somehow proud of the event, as if he’d guided the spectacle from initial notion through promotion and finance. “They are going to pound on each other till one of them stops breathing.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Lounge takes twenty percent of the book,” Oster says. “The whole city’s been laying down money faster than my beat bulls can pick it up. We’re going to use half the proceeds to build some bleachers back here and increase the attendance. You know the old boys down City Hall don’t want to be sitting on fruit crates at this stage of their careers.”

Gilrein stares at him and Oster says, “Next year I’ll save you a place in the owner’s box. How’s that sound, Gilly”—he pauses and lets his smile fade—“huh? You will be attending next year, Gilrein? That is what you’re here to tell me, right?”

Gilrein doesn’t answer. Down in the pit, Green puts his arm up in the air and swings a big circle as if tossing an invisible lasso.

“Hold that thought,” Oster says. “Looks like the festivities are about to begin.”

He pulls his piece from his shoulder rig and fires three rounds into the air, which effectively calls the crowd’s attention. He picks his bullhorn up from the bricks and brings it to his mouth.

“Gentlemen,” his voice amplified into a fuzzy and slightly mechanical echo, bouncing off the wall of the factory and running back out into the woods behind him. “On behalf of the Houdini Lounge social committee, I just want to welcome you all to the first annual Rome Avenue Tournament of Refugees. Now before we begin this evening’s feature match, I need to remind you that my boys are passing around a collection hat for the widows and orphans relief fund and I know that you’ll all give generously to this worthy cause that benefits the families of our brother officers.”

He lowers the bullhorn to chest level and looks out over the crowd, checking to make sure the audience is digging into their deepest pockets. Without looking at Gilrein, he says, “You’re going to love this, Gilly. This is going to be better than a gladiator movie.”

Gilrein tries to see if he’s kidding, but Oster just lifts the bullhorn and says, “Now I know a lot of you have been waiting weeks for tonight’s bout and the management genuinely regrets all the rescheduling we’ve put you through, but I think you’re going to find that it’s been worth the wait. So let’s introduce this evening’s fighters.”

Without waiting for the crowd’s latest drunken cheer to subside, Oster pulls an index card from a pocket and nods to Stewie Green, who holds up the manacled arm of his prisoner and starts to lead him in a display promenade around the periphery of the pit.

“Originally hailing from the Dominican Republic and in town just six short months is Rafael Rojo.”

A quick break for both cheers and taunts, then, “Weighing in tonight at a speedy one hundred and forty-three pounds, Rafael was Gunther Berlin’s collar …” A huge cheer obscures the next few words. “… picked up in February on various weapons-possession charges in addition to possession and intent to distribute a class A substance and assault on a police officer with shod foot.” A swell of boos as half a dozen beer cans are tossed into the pit.

Oster looks up from his notes and yells, “Excuse me, people, I’ll have to ask you to refrain from littering the fight area. Yes, I’m talking to you, Callan. Your debris could affect the outcome of tonight’s match.”

Someone yells a remark that Gilrein doesn’t catch. Oster nods to Danny Walden, who goes into the same circle-trot with his captive.

“And straight out of Karachi, Pakistan, in our fair city for only a fortnight and picked up by Metro Sergeant Horace “He was dead when I found him” Kemp during his rotation with the Office of Disease Control — that’s it, stand up, Kempster, boy”—a huge roar of cheers from the train-yard bulls—“tonight’s challenger is Subash Anandi. Awaiting deportation for forged inoculation papers, Subash weighs in this evening at one hundred and sixty-seven pounds of ragin’ Muslim muscle.”

Walden and Subash come back to center pit and Oster says, “Let’s have a big Houdini Lounge welcome for both of our young warriors,” and the crowd louds up obligingly one more time, then settles in as Walden and Green unlock all their chains and scramble up to their seats on opposite rims of the crater, where they’re each handed a twelve-gauge pump Winchester, this tournament’s version of the referee’s whistle.

“Gentlemen,” Oster yells, “whenever you’re ready.”

Someone lets an air horn blow for several seconds and as soon as it stops Subash leaps forward, going in under Rafael’s meatless ribs, driving the teenager to the ground. And then the two of them are rolling around the pit, covering themselves with mud and splintered glass and brick ash. Subash is jabbing at both of Rafael’s sides, solid little tags that hurt more than Rafael can believe. Rafael scrambles to get loose, kicks a foot into the Pakistani’s groin hard enough to break off the attack and instantly change the direction of the fight.

Rafael rolls to the side, gets up on a knee and before he can think, he clumsily pounces on top on Subash’s back, throwing a thin choke hold around the neck. The Pakistani sinks a skin-breaking bite into Rafael’s wrist. Rafael screams, releases his hold, and Subash grabs the bleeding arm with both hands and pulls Rafael over onto his back, then plants a knee on the teen’s chest and throws a combination at the kid’s face, landing a right below the eye and a left, more solid, full impact, into the jaw.

Gilrein is light-headed but he can’t take his eyes off what he knows is very soon going to turn into carnage. Oster chooses this moment to lean to Gilrein’s ear and say, “I know you thought I was out of line, bringing you back here, you know, where it all happened.”

Gilrein stares at Subash flailing away as if Rafael’s head was some speed bag stuffed with bone and meat.

“But I had to make you see, Gilly. I felt honor-bound, you’ve got to understand this. I needed to make you realize there could be life after Ceil.”

The name breaks up the vision and Gilrein turns to look at Oster as Oster drapes an arm over Gilrein’s shoulder and squints and smiles and bobs his head a little and says, “This is what Ceil would want. You know that. Deep down, you know it. Ceil would not want her husband driving around Bangkok at night without a badge and a piece.”

“I’ve still got the piece,” Gilrein says, confused, but Oster ignores him and continues.

“Ceil would not want Gilrein to spend the rest of his life as some low-rent taxi-boy. Counting out change. Collecting rags. Mopping up the backseat for every scum rat that can whistle. Ceil would be crushed.”

“You knew Ceil pretty well, huh, Bobby?”

Rafael can feel skin rip inside his mouth and a jet of warm liquid start to roll over his tongue and gums. He spits a wad of blood and pulp onto his own torso, is pumped up by the sight and instinctively yanks a fistful of Subash’s hair and throws the opponent off his chest.

Rafael takes in some air and touches his jaw and gets belted with both a jolt of pain and a burst of adrenaline that has him on his feet and grabbing blindly for Subash, void of thought, absent of ideas about cause and effect, simply wanting to get hold of the bastard who tore up his mouth and go him one better, do some lasting damage, break the man up and stomp on the parts. The kid has never felt this kind of rage. He’s crazy with it. He swings a bent elbow, off-balance but with enough force to catch Subash in the throat. Subash starts to bend forward, and Rafael surprises himself by finessing a respectable punch, driving in a fist just above the belt line.

“I’m just saying, Ceil would want you back with family, Gil. Ceil would want you here with us. Ceil would say, ‘Go for it.’ Ceil would tell you, ‘Listen to Bobby Oster.’ She was a fine cop. I don’t have to tell you that. She was one of the best. Things turned out different, she would have moved past the old priest. I’m telling you, Ceil would want you to be one of us.”

“The Magicians?”

“Ceil would say ‘Do it in my memory,’” Oster says. “She’d be like, ‘You and Bobby O get down to the Park ‘n’ start kicking some ass. In my name.’”

“Ceil didn’t talk that way,” Gilrein says.

“The point is,” Oster says, “you’re home now. And once I talk to my people, we’ll have you reinstated in a week. There’s a hole in Administrative Vice right now. We’re all over AD, Gilly. We own that goddamn department and we’re branching out. The boys’ll help you move your stuff in here next weekend. You can be on the job by Friday. I got stuff in the pipe for you already. Swear to God.”

The air runs from Subash’s lungs, empties his body with an awful speed, and sends him down, full weight on both knees. He tries to hold up a flat hand, a panicky stop sign, but his balance is gone and he topples onto all fours, gasping. Rafael is over the edge. He lets a foot kick out, smacking into Subash’s side, knocking him over onto shoulder and head.

One of the ponytailed betting agents runs up to Oster and thrusts a wad of bills at him. Bobby crams the stash in a rear pocket, slaps the cashier on the ass as she turns, and calls to her back, “Two more minutes, Dolores, then close it down.”

He stands up, waves to Danny Walden, mimes some cryptic body language like a paranoid base coach, then asks over his shoulder, “So, what, is it in the Checker?”

Though expected, the question rocks Gilrein and he asks, “Is what in the Checker?”

Oster turns to look at him and says, “C’mon, Gilly, don’t jerk me around tonight. You can see I’ve got my hands full here.”

Rafael’s chest is heaving as he circles his downed opponent. Stewie Green has told him to wait at least fifteen minutes before the kill, but Green’s Spanish isn’t the best and time has a tendency to get distorted in the penal colony. So he stomps down on the Pakistani’s stomach with his heel, follows this up with a kick in the face that breaks open a run of blood vessels along the right eye. The crowd’s shrieking pushes toward maximum volume and Rafael goes into his act, pretends to suddenly spot something glinting in the spotlight, something metal shining up out of a matted pile of old leaves and blown-up bricks. He grabs hold and picks it up, an old piece of piping, about the size of a small baseball bat, threaded at each end. He wraps both hands around one end, chokes them up an inch and takes a cut through the air that makes a wonderful whooshing sound.

A few feet behind him, Subash is moaning and moving, trying to get back on his feet. Rafael turns to see the adversary grabbing hold of a brick. He starts to walk toward Subash, taking warm-up swings with the pipe bat, practice for a swat to the skull that will put the Pakistani down for good.

“I’m not jerking you around,” Gilrein says.

Oster waits a long time before replying, seeming to study the fight like a stern dance instructor. He runs a hand over his mouth, then says, “’Course you’re jerking me around. You’re not stupid enough to come back here without the book—”

“I don’t have any book, Oster.”

Rafael’s chest is heaving and blood is running down his chin nonstop. He brings the pipe back over his right shoulder. Subash forces his way to his feet, lifts his brick back behind his right ear in a pitcher’s stance. They start to slowly circle each other, the crowd loving it, screaming down advice or insults at the two fighters in a language that neither one can understand.

Oster stands up slowly, catches Stewie Green’s eye, makes some kind of hand gesture that Green confidently nods a response to. Green climbs up on a pile of bricks and starts to call out three equally accented and slightly elongated syllables: Raf — a—el, Rat — a—el—and the crowd picks up on it immediately, making it into a group war chant that grows louder in volume with each recitation, a ceremonial egging-on of the kid with the pipe, an aural talisman with the power to turn a desperate refugee with little understanding of how and why he ended up in this moment, into some kind of mythic warrior ready, with the aid of a length of planted lead water pipe, to dispense a messy death to a weaker enemy.

Bobby Oster sits back down and says, “I’ve always thought you and I were a lot alike, Gilly. Almost like we’re brothers. Like one of those old stories, you know? We’re separated at birth and we meet up years later …”

He trails off, shaking his head.

Gilrein says, “I don’t think so. I think it’s more like one of those not-so-old stories where one of us has to rip the heart out of the other. And I think both of us know that.”

“You really didn’t bring the book, did you, you asshole?”

Rafael hesitates, makes a noticeable glance up to Walden. Walden gestures slightly with the Winchester, tipping the barrel down toward the ground. Subash senses something and panics, charges blindly with his brick. But Rafael is too fast. He steps into the charge and bunts Subash in the throat, putting him back down on the ground, choking without sound. Then Rafael straddles the quaking body, a foot on either side of the Pakistani’s hips. Rafael chokes up on the pipe, holds it cocked for several seconds like a young Ted Williams posing for what will become an enormously valuable trading card.

“I wish there were some other way we could have resolved this,” Oster says, staring, unblinking, down on the pit.

Gilrein listens to the chanting die out in an instant, as if by some unseen signal. He says, “You’re going to take me out right here? Some of these people were my friends …”

Bobby Oster says, “Don’t flatter yourself, okay?”

Subash tries to move, his head rolling on his neck as understanding flows back into the brain. He makes a futile and stuttering attempt to gain balance up on an arm. Rafael is blocking Gilrein’s view. Oster moves a few steps to the side, maybe to see if the doomed man’s eyes are open or closed.

Gilrein moves up behind him and says, “I’m not going to just roll over, Bobby.”

Oster shrugs, intent on watching the finale.

“Doesn’t matter what you do, Gilly,” he says. “We come after someone, there’s nothing they can do.”

And then the pipe comes down, flies to the skull with a vicious and simplistic arc, a chop down through the air, fairly graceless but completely effective.

Subash’s skull cracks open. Blood explodes. And to make sure the job is done, Rafael hammers home two more blows, leaving no doubt in the mind of the crowd as to who has won money tonight and who has lost.