Tom Schreck - TKO

Elvis was singing the “Where Could I Go But to the Lord/I’m Saved” medley, and I was looking down at my fourth empty when I saw the red truck pull in. Both sets of knuckles went white around the steering wheel and my neck began to spasm. Jake was a big boy with a mop of curly hair, a fat face, and a layer of hard fat that pushed out his flannel shirt just over his belt. He had the build of a pretty good Division III football guard, ten years out of the game. He could’ve been Michael Strahan and it wouldn’t have mattered tonight.

I slammed the door to the Eldorado and headed toward the entrance. The gravel kicked up as I walked, and I became aware that both my hands were balled into fists. I thought of Billy, a goofy-ass kid without a dad, and what it would be like for him to watch his mom get slapped around. Sofco couldn’t get beat up enough.

I got within ten feet of the door and I found myself stopped in my tracks. My neck was twitching all over the place, but there was an invisible force keeping me from moving forward. My rage was there but I couldn’t move.

I went back to the Eldorado and opened another beer. I held the cold can to my forehead and wiped the tears off my face with the back of my hand. I was shaking.

I called Monique, who I knew would still be in the office late on a Friday afternoon. I gave her the background on Billy and Sofco.

“Let it go,” she said.

“I can’t let it happen again,” I said.

“That’s not for you to decide.” Her voice remained in the same gentle but forceful tone. “This is a dynamic that will go on despite any beating you give this man, Duffy. There needs to be a change of permanence for Billy and his mom to make a difference,” she said.

“I want so much to hurt this man.”

“Is that about you or helping the Cramers?”

She was right. She always was.

I headed to the Hill to take care of some business that I would need to do to get this project done. There was a creep whose reputation I knew from the gym named “the Caretaker,” who the street kids talked about. He was really kind of a street broker who dealt in situations more than product, but if you needed something he either had it or knew where to get it. The rumors were that he did enough dealing to make a living but that he was obsessively careful not to rise above law enforcement’s radar screen.

I only saw him once but I remembered him. He was a black man but he had that weird condition that Michael Jackson claims to have where patches of his skin become almost bleached white. Three-quarters of his face were blotched white and his kinky hair, which he wore tight to his scalp, was reddish. Strangely enough, he dressed like a preppy even though he did all his dealing deep in the ’hood.

He had an office of sorts in the back room of a place that sold DJ tapes, and I knew enough about how it worked to know that I had to ask up front and give my name to get an audience with the Caretaker. I did just that with the black kid with the ridiculously baggy white jeans up front who did his best to look disinterested as he called on the phone. With a real economy of words and a head gesture he directed me to the back of the store to a curtain. I went back beyond the curtain to see the Caretaker.

He was wearing one of those pink golf shirts with the guy riding the horse on it and a pair of neatly pressed khakis. Loafers with no socks filled out the outfit that made as much sense on this individual as Nell Carter in a thong.

“How can I help you… Duffy… right? You’re the fighter,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s me. I need a gun and some heroin,” I said.

“Hmmm… The devil’s right hand for the pug and some of the white vacation…”

“I have something difficult to do and I’m going to need some help.”

“Yes, apparently you do. How big of an army would you like?” The Bond-villain-speak was getting on my nerves.

“Army?”

“Caliber?”

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I hate guns.”

He rummaged through his desk and handed me a handgun.

“Tres ocho por Senor. Now for the whiteness, I’m hoping you’re not looking for volume. The Sky Pilot has not landed this week.”

“Sky Pilot?”

“My… uh… distributor. He’s somewhat not of this earth.”

“Yeah, a couple of bags would be fine.”

I gave the Caretaker what he asked for and didn’t hang around for small talk. I had shit to do and frankly, the guy creeped me out with his looks, what he did, and his affected James Bond speak. I kept waiting for Dr. No and Pussy Galore to come around the corner and offer me a martini before they forced me into some sort of diabolical death machine. Still, you couldn’t accuse the Caretaker of being your run-of-the-mill ordinary Crawford citizen.

I made a quick trip to AJ’s to get help from the guys and as usual, if the favor involved free drinks, they were up for it. I led them all out to the Insideout and they knew their job and they knew it well. When it came to getting bombed, no one, and I mean no one, did a finer job than the brain trust.

I sat in the parking lot with another Schlitz and felt uneasy in the presence of the gun. Having a few bags of heroin on me didn’t sit quite right either but I was definitely going to need it. Elvis was halfway through “How Great Thou Art” and I was finishing off the six-pack. I got out of the Eldorado and went over to the red pickup.

Sofco may have been a real asshole, but his timing was impeccable. He came out of the bar just as I was through and he passed me as I walked back to the Cadillac. He was staggering a bit-two hours with the Fearsome Foursome on a mission would do that to anyone. I started up the Eldorado after I made the call and let Sofco get a fifteen-minute start on me. Hopefully, that’s all it would take.

I eased out of the parking lot and headed down Route 55, which headed toward Crawford and the side of town Billy lived on. The twitch in my neck let me know that Sofco wasn’t going to make it there tonight.

I was only driving for about ten minutes when I saw the flashing lights and the Crawford police cruiser. The number on the back of the car, 9261TS, told me it was officer Mike Kelley. The handcuffed Sofco told me he blew the wrong numbers into the breathalyzer. And the fact that officer Kelley was looking in the glove box told me that Billy and his mom would be safe tonight.

You see, two-time felons, guilty of DWI, with an illegal handgun and heroin in their possession don’t make bail.

Al must’ve sensed the twitching in my neck and my elevated blood pressure because he went extra nuts when I came through the door. I got him his sustenance and cracked open another can of sustenance for myself.

My hands were shaking and I wasn’t sure if it was my flirtation with the underworld, the illegal shit I did that could’ve caused me a world of trouble, or the fact that I just set up a man to go to prison for a long time. It might have been that stuff or it might have been the fact that I didn’t get to beat the shit out of Sofco.

Or it might have had more to do with me being away from the gym. Since I took up karate at age eleven, I haven’t gone two weeks without sparring or fighting someone. I’ve had a handful of street scraps, not very many, but I always had the outlet between the ropes. My self-imposed avoidance of the gym left me with a gap, and that gap was sending adrenaline, anger, or Schlitz-induced rage through my veins. Maybe it was all much simpler. Maybe I just wanted to beat the shit out of a bad guy.

Al calmed down and I went through the mail. Six credit card companies were offering me their business, there was the cable bill and a solicitation from the Polish American Club, and there was a letter from the office, which I opened. It read: