Jack O'Connell - Word Made Flesh

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—”