Debt, page 4
One of the Italians I pissed off at that Bushwick fight was a guy by the name of Vito, Vito Falco. A big-time organizer who ran the books for the biggest-paying fights. He told me had some ‘friends’ in ‘high places’ who owed him a ‘favor’ and, if I wanted to get a green card, it could be arranged.
I told him I didn’t need favors.
Maybe he saw something in my eyes, because he looked at me fiercely and said, “No, my friend, I am not doing you a favor. You are doing me a favor. You see, while you are unknown, something tells me the odds will always be against you, and I will be collecting on those odds. What you need to do, my friend, is win. It is I who will be in debt to you.”
I didn’t take it. Maybe that made me Vito’s enemy but hearing the words favor and debt in the same sentence made my skin go cold. “With all due respect,” I said. “No thanks.”
Vito was not happy with that, not happy at all. And Vito is not a man accustomed to being told No. So he got a hold of István instead, to convince me to take his offer. I told István I would never be in the debt of another man, not this kind of debt at least.
It was when my sister called me a week later that I changed my mind. She was happy that day, ecstatic. I had been telling her for a while that I was planning to cover her college bills, and that she should take care of her schoolwork and get good grades and I’d take care of the rest. She had no idea I was fighting for a living.
She called me telling me about her report card. She was fifteen already, three more years till college. She had gotten A’s in every subject. Every subject.
A’s.
“So I’m keeping my part of the deal, Logan, right?”
My world fell apart. “Yes, you are,” I said.
“I think Oxford is the best, Logan. I saw how mum and dad suffered because we didn’t have money. And, you know, I hate to say it but...well...what happened to mum...” She trailed off for a second. Then: “I don’t think it would have happened if we’d had more money, Logan, if we had lived in a better place, if dad had been educated.”
The last bit of resistance crumbled in my heart. And right there, I decided to accept my first favor. “OK,” I said to her. “OK, keep up those A’s. If you falter, deal’s off.”
“I won’t falter! I’m smart.”
She is.
I took Vito’s deal seconds after talking to Ailee. I called István up and told him to set it up.
I got my green card three days later.
If it had taken a year or, hell, even a month, I would have been less worried.
But I suddenly realized the power of the man who had done me this favor and in whose debt I now was.
It would be only a few months before he came to collect.
-5-
My name grew fast in Vito’s camp. There aren’t leagues in underground fighting, only the Big Fights and the Little Fights, the Big Money and the Scraping the Bottom Money. You didn’t get into the Big Fights unless someone wanted you to. Vito’s circle is all about the Big Fights.
I haven’t done a Big Fight in nearly four years.
I had become a biggish name. Not the biggest, but big enough. I still wasn’t raking in the big cash, but this opportunity presented itself when Vito set me up for my first Big Fight. It was to be with the illustrious Juergen “Kaiser” from Berlin. Kaiser’s reputation for pounding his opponent until he was out, even after the bell rang, had only grown larger. There aren’t a lot of rules in underground fighting, but there are rules. No one wants an incapacitated fighter. It’s bad for business.
Kaiser didn’t give a shit. He still doesn’t.
His name was bigger than mine, and his odds were better than mine. Much better. I was the newcomer, and he was old-school. Kaiser hadn’t lost a fight in two years. Most guys don’t even survive fighting itself for more than a year. That I’ve been at this game for nearly five years either makes me incredibly stupid, or incredibly gifted. Kaiser is still at it today, bringing his total fighting time in the cage to six or seven years. But he only does a bout every few months. I do one nearly every week.
Despite the odds, a lot of people believed I could win that fight. It surprised Vito. He hadn’t expected me to be so well loved by the crowd. The last thing a bookie needs is lots of high-odds bets coming through. And a fair amount of people bet on me that night.
As to my own earnings, the fight would pay eight thousand US dollars for the winner, and two thousand for the loser. István pulled me aside. “I have a message from Vito,” he said. “Technically, if Kaiser loses, he walks away with two thousand dollars, the loser’s cut. But...if you lose, Logan... Well...well...it’s possible you might walk away with a little more than the winner’s cut.”
“He wants me to throw the fight.”
István looked nervous. “His exact words are that he wants you to do him a favor.”
“A favor.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t do it.”
István looked stressed.
“You already told him I would,” I said.
István swallowed. “I thought, what with your sister’s—”
“My sister is my concern, not yours, not anybody else’s.”
He ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, István.”
A terror washed over István’s face. And I understood the terror he was feeling. This was Mafia we were talking about, guys who might cut off his fingers if he broke his word to them. “Christ, István, how the fuck could you put me in this position?”
His face broke out in sweat.
“They offered you money, didn’t they?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Christ. Fuck.”
A voice roared from the speakers. “And now, all the way from London, Eeeeeeengland. The Man with a Temper. The Fist that’s a Mallet. Two-hundred-thirty pounds, Inked, Bad, Ready, ladies and gentleman, the one, the only, the rising star—annnnnnnd the hopes and dreams of dropping panties everywherrrrrrrrrre.” Cheers. Catcalls. And some booing as well. “The DEBT COLLECTORRRRRRRRR!!!”
The noise of the crowd was too loud for István to hear my final words to him, panicking István who’d lose a thumb or two if I didn’t do right by him.
And then? Once I’ve done Vito a favor, will he do one in return? And so it goes until we’re so deep in unpaid favors that someone decides, finally, bloodily, that ALL DEBTS MUST BE PAID.
I wasn’t entirely certain what I’d do when I made my way down the aisle, hands touching me, mostly female, but a few men as well. And I got into that cage disoriented, confused. I could use the money. I could. Damn it, I really could. Besides, maybe I’d lose anyway. This was my first Big Fight. Kaiser was a pro, he still is today.
And then the bell rang.
And my confusion disappeared.
In front of me was a giant with a Nazi symbol across his chest.
I thought of Ailee. I thought of her college. I could use that money. She could use that money. Heck, if I was a smart man, I could have wrangled István for his cut. He’d get to keep his thumbs, and I’d get to push my sister’s dreams.
But all this mental gymnastics went for shit when Kaiser, buzz-cut and blond and, worst of all, smiling with big white teeth, came for me.
He came for me like I was nothing.
He came at me grinning. Grinning, of all things. Like I was only a piece of shit to be stomped on while he ruled the crowd and made a goddamn example of me.
Like Morty wanted to make an example of me.
Like Morty did make an example of me, and my father, and, for fuck’s sakes, my bloody mother.
Kaiser’s fist never reached me.
Something snapped inside me. Something hard.
Kaiser was on the ground before ten seconds were up. A win by KO in the first few seconds meant the odds were even worse for Vito.
I didn’t even realize I’d won until I felt hands on me, pulling me, big men, other fighters, and my fists were swinging, swinging, furious anger flying in swirls and—
The bell rang again and again and the announcer said something. I couldn’t hear it.
Worried faces in front of me. Worried faces. Someone shouting, “Stop. Stop. Stop! Debt Collector, you won. Stop, damn it!” And my fists still swinging, kicking, anything, anyone in front of me.
I had been kicking Morty.
And I had been trying to kill him.
-6-
Kaiser suffered a concussion, some broken ribs, a broken nose. Turns out I’d gotten him down with one thwack to the jaw and then I just kept hitting him and hitting him.
Vito never paid me the winner’s cut. And he never paid me the loser’s cut either.
István didn’t lose a thumb, but he spent a week in the hospital.
Vito told me to never set foot in New York again and said that I would never fight in any Big Fight in any state if he had any say in it. Which he does. Vito has friends everywhere. So I’ve been doing Little Fights since then, a few hundred a pop, maybe a grand or two if the turnout is really large. ‘Really large’ turnouts for a Little Fight is maybe two hundred people, nothing compared to what Vito’s fights pull in.
I haven’t made good money since then. I paid for Ailee’s first year of tuition, as they say back home, by the skin of my teeth.
The Nashville fight will pay more than I usually make. It’s a rare opportunity. Tennessee is one of the few places Vito has little say, but that only means the payouts suck there. The only reason this fight will pay anything decent is because of the CMA, lots of people there.
Kaiser has wanted my ass ever since I took him down four years ago. He’s in top form, fighting only a few times a year, running a martial arts studio the rest of the time. He doesn’t fight for the money, he fights for the lust of it, which only makes him more dangerous. Desperate men make mistakes. Kaiser isn’t desperate.
Fighting is a job for me, and I’d like to keep that job. But the Nashville fight promises big money. Big money. So I accepted his challenge.
-7-
The brunette at the bar in Texas intrigued me, the one with the not-too-short skirt and the get-my-cock-hard tights. I keep thinking of her as I make my way to Nashville for this weekend’s fight. And I’m thinking of her because she was an anomaly. She looks like trouble, but she’s not a slut. That was easy to tell by the way she didn’t spread her legs for the first beer that was bought for her. Or the second. I wasn’t there when they bought her the beers, but Kenneth filled me in.
Either way, I could tell from one look at her that she was trying to be something she isn’t, the way she gazed down at her bottle, the way she held it, looked at it, caressed it, avoided gazes from men who clearly wanted her, present company included. She’s lonely. That one’s obvious. But who isn’t these days?
I’ve seen plenty of chicks at bars. Sluts and wannabe-sluts. The wannabe sluts usually dress too slutty. The actual sluts make it happen with very little effort.
The brunette was neither.
Of course, there was also the fact that I saw her from my rearview, rushing out the door, staring at my truck as I drove away. I damn near drove off the road my eyes were so locked to that mirror.
Then again, maybe I was just fucking horny. That could be it, too. I’m still horny. Those legs—Jeezus. I like the chase. I’ve had so many empty one-nighters that the only thrill I get these days is from the chase, from hoping that when I next meet a girl there will be something there, but I’m not even sure what.
There was no chase for me with Jenny the Doctor, but there was something else, a spark. Something intimate.
It scared the crap out of me.
It wasn’t what I was looking for. And before I had the chance to ruin a friendship that had been built up over quite some time, Jenny pulled the plug on me. I’m glad she did. Because I care for her. Just not like that.
One of the few times I ever lost a fight was before she pulled the plug. Jenny tugged at heartstrings I didn’t know I had. It made me soft. I suffered in the cage. And as a result, my income suffered. And that can’t happen. She was smart enough to see that too. Women are smarter than men, I don’t deny this fact.
Kenneth gave me the skinny on the two out-of-towners. The blond and the sexy legs brunette. And they’re heading to Nashville. I think he might have heard me smile on the other side of the line.
I’ll find her. I know I will. There’s only one strip where people hang out in Nashville at night.
And I’ll walk into every bar looking for her.
~Three~
Kyla
-1-
Mamma Jamma (who likes calling girls honey) can’t take a hint and keeps hitting on me at the Nashville bar. I entertain him as long as I can before Vera comes to my rescue, after she spent some time in the, er, ladies’ room. Or a back-alley, could be either one.
Mamma Jamma quickly turns his eyes to her and I’m forgotten, to be literary, like a leaf in the wind. Vera’s sexier than me, and Vera puts out pheromones like pollen in spring. The Daisy Dukes showing off the bottoms of her buns go a long way as well.
But she’s good at running interference, and there’s no way in hell she’s taking this guy to bed. I can tell by her movements, by how she tilts her head and laughs at his jokes and just keeps the free drinks coming. No interest. Mamma Jamma here has about as much charm as a toothpick, honey.
It’s not long before his desperation begins to show on him. After the fourth or fifth or seventh drink he’s bought her (and Vera’s still showing no interest) he pulls out the big guns, a last-ditch effort to get something out of us. “Would you fine ladies like to accompany me to an underground fight?” It came out something like woodjoo fahn leddies lahk ta-accummanny may ta-ah unnergrah-yown fahht?
Vera’s ears perk up. “A what?” she says, not sounding false at all.
I know where this is going, and I tug at her shirt to knock it off. She slaps my hand away like it’s a termite. “A...fight?”
“Why, yes...” And then Mamma Jamma lowers his voice, leans forward. “I really shouldn’t be tellin ya this, but...” He looks around. “...there’s gonna be lots-a good lookin men over there.”
Is he looking for a freakin gang bang?
Vera turns to face me, her eyes lit up. I start shaking my head. When she doesn’t get the hint, I say, “No.”
Mamma Jamma insists. “Oh, c’mon, it’d be fun. I could have both-a y’all on each-a mah arms.”
Vera rolls her eyes at me. She mouths, C’mon!
“No.”
“Kyla,” she whispers, and then she does some funny movements with her hands that basically tell me I’m being an idiot and I’m losing out on an opportunity.
“Ah-course, I can’t tell you where it is. We’d have to go in mah car. It’s...a confidential location an’ all.”
Oh, great.
Vera turns to face him. “Uhm...dude...” I’m clearly not the only one who’s forgotten his name. “...would you excuse us a sec?”
She pulls me out of the bar, although it takes some time to fight our way through the mob inside it. That’s what No Drinking on The Streets does for you. Outside, it’s little better, people jostling past us, elbowing me. “What the fuck, Ky?”
“With this dude?”
Vera looks up at the sky. “Hot—men—fighting. Do I need to say anything more?”
“I’m all for hot and sweaty men in a ring, but going in his car?”
“Oh, c’mon, dude’s harmless. He might put a hand on my leg and think he’s getting something and then we can hook up with one of those sexy fighters and...whatever his name is in there...can, well, drive home alone.”
“You’re being serious.”
“Damn it, of course I’m being serious!”
“Not a chance. And...” I bite my lip, not sure how to word this next phrase. “I’m not letting you go either. Not with him.”
“Oh, hi mom.”
“Vera, c’mon, this dude probably keeps a shotgun in his truck. And...and...”
“What? Fingernails?”
“Maybe.”
Vera huffs in exasperation. “Fuck,” she says. She folds her arms. Looks down at the floor. “Fuck, Kyla.”
“Ve—”
She puts her hand up. “No, fuck it, you’re right, damn it. Christ.” She shakes her head, runs a hand through it. “It just sounded...fun, y’know?”
“Maybe someone else knows about it. We could ask around, get someone to give us the address, and then drive there with our own car.”
“I hate you,” she says, trying not to smile.
“I know.” I pull her in for a hug.
With her head buried on my chest, she says, “I’m sure those fighters have huge cocks.”
I try not to laugh. I try, but I fail utterly.
-2-
“Shit, one o’clock,” Vera says, slapping my arm lightly with the back of her hand. We’re back inside the bar and I let my eyes drift in the direction of one o’clock and see an overconfident dude with perfect blue eyes leaning on a wall looking at us. Grinning. He’s got on a denim shirt and snake boots. Big arms. Yeah, I guess he’s good looking. He looks like he might have been prom king once.
He pushes off the wall and saunters over to us, chewing on a toothpick, grinning ever more widely. When he gets to us, he says, “Good evening, ladies.”
“Good evening...” Vera says, leaning her head forward expectantly. Vera has the type of cleavage most girls can only dream of, and there isn’t a guy in the world whose eyes don’t drift down toward her chest whenever they see her. This dude, however, keeps his gaze locked on her eyes.
“Jake, short for Jacob,” he says. “Jacob Mansfield. Pleased ta make yer acquaintance.” Jake gives me a quick glance, not lustful, not lecherous, perhaps a little amused. And then his eyes lock on the magnificence of my best friend. Surprisingly, he’s still not looking at her breasts.
“I’m Vera. Vera Walters. And this is Kyla...Hensley.”
