Jack O'Connell - Word Made Flesh

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.”