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I told her that the men who had followed her from the tube were in the room. Their hoodies had been pulled back. I got a clear view of our present danger. One was bald, the other sported locks. They had slipped inside and posted up in the section of Starbucks between us and the front door. There was only one way in and one way out. They weren’t that close. The coffeeshop was large, could be divided into three sections, us being in the back third. Neither had a coffee or a newspaper. They were waiting for something, and I knew it wasn’t the tube. I told Arizona all of that with smiles and laughter Arizona sat back down, did that real ladylike, crossed her legs, played with her hair. Then she chuckled and smiled like everything was okay. I did the same, kept the game going. She asked, “You sure they’re following me? They could be following you.” “They were behind you when you showed up at Freddie Mercury.” “Who are they?” “Thought they might be part of the Rev crew.” “Though you handled them.” “Reverends are like roaches.” “Cockroaches.” “Can’t kill’em all” “Not even with a nuclear explosion.” Between us, we’d offended so many people that death or justice could come at anytime with any face. I’d been that death for many people, enough to earn me damn near a million Arizona tensed. Then she smiled again. “Okay, I’ll leave first. See if they follow me.” “Which way?” “Pass by Haagen-Dazs café, get to Charing Cross, make a left, first narrow street turn left again, that’ll take you off the main drag and into Chinatown. Head toward car park on the right.” I nodded. “Left out of Starbucks and two more lefts to car park.” “Carmine. If it’s the police on my ass, let it go, okay? Let them take me and let it go.” That hurt my heart. “Just make it around the block as soon as you can.” “You know the rules. If it’s the police and they’re after you, I’ll have to do the same.” “I know” Arizona took a small package out of her bag “Forgot to put this jewelry with your special order.” She slid that package across the table toward me. Arizona picked up Miles, Trane, and Wes, held them in her hand, put on a sweet smile, blew me a kiss good-bye, got up, and walked away. I picked up a left-behind copy of the Daily Telegraph, pretended I was reading about the twelve who bankrolled Tony Blair into a loan crisis, then spied toward the front of Starbucks again, toward the two men who had raised my senses. I wanted them to be after me, not Arizona. I’d lead them in the opposite direction. But the second she walked out of Starbucks, they were hot on her trail As soon as they hit the front door, I was on my feet, grabbed what Arizona had left behind, opened it as I moved with quickness, walking fast enough to keep them in sight. Brass Knuckles. Arizona had given me Brass knuckles Arizona was making her way through the sea of people crowding Leicester Square. They were focused on her, gradually getting closer, keeping her in sight. I was right behind them, separated by a decent crowd of tourists and locals. I expected one-if not both-to look back. They never did. They weren’t pros. Not even close. But that didn’t make them any less of a threat. They got closer to Arizona I sped up, got closer to them. The neon signs and Eastern structures of Chinatown rose up. Two lefts and a right later, I ran into a wall of Chinese food. The stench of egg fried rice and lo mein took me back to the Reverend, turned my stomach Arizona moved through all this Asians on the plaza, strolled like she was about to pass by the care park and head toward the section of Soho dedicated to the queer and gothic, but she made an abrupt right turn, her casual walk changing into a fierce run. That sudden change in direction and sprint surprised her stalkers. The men broke into a trot trying to catch her. Arizona was fast, moved like greased lightning. She’d been chased before. She’d been chased and never been caught. I broke into a sprint, cold and damp air in my face, trying to keep up with them. They raced inside the covered lot, looked left and right, heard something, footsteps running and they ran up the curved exit. When they made it to the next floor, they were winded. Confused. They looked between cars, then looked behind them, saw me standing there. Watching. Relaxed. Hands in my pockets, I face my new dilemma eye to eye. I said, “Amazing how she vanishes. Like smoke. Poof. She’s gone.” A few automobiles and a motorcycle exited the car park with us staring. We were up a level, away from the eyes of the public. I took a step forward, my foot landing in a puddle, splashing water. The one with dreadlocks was five foot eleven, the shorter of the two. His silent friend was taller, larger, owned the mean face. Obviously the enforcer. I asked, “Who sent you?” “Who the fuck are you?” Dreadlocks was the spokesman. Hands in pockets, eyes on my new friends, I inhaled deeply, let it out slowly. They came closer. Closer. I went numb. Detached myself from the moment. Then they were close enough to hurt me The smaller one stayed back at least three steps The big one came at me ready to do damage. He came after me like I had gone after others. I held my position. Nervous. Scared. Excited. Sweating. Numb. I was all of that. I knew twenty-two ways to kill a man with my bare hands. But only one way to die. In an accented voice Dreadlocks asked, “Where is Queen Scamz?” A car was zooming down the ramp. The car was half the size of a mini cooper, even smaller than the popular Smart car. It was one of the short and slender LUV cars big enough for two anorexic midgets. The car was quiet and moved like bullet. The car hit Dreadlocks dead on, flipped him, and knocked his ass to the side. His dreads whipped around his face as he grunted and slammed into one of the concrete pillars, went down headfirst, landed in a way that told me he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, if at all. Arizona put on her brakes, got out of that fuel-efficient weapon on four wheels. The big one that had come up on me with fists doubled, that crash had stolen his attention. Now he was suffering blow after blow, bending, grunting, bleeding, going down hard and fast. Ten hard and fast blows from my right hand to his face and ribs left his face broken beyond belief. I had slipped on the brass knuckles Arizona had slid me. He’d wake up in London hospital, pissing blood, a tube in his nose, and a shit bag strapped to his hip. Then I was surprised. The other one, after being run down, moaned and got up. Head bloodied, dreadlocks swaying, he staggered toward the exit. His right arm looked broken. He was whimpering and limping like a monster out of a late-night creature feature. Moved like he was in “Thriller” Arizona’s arms pumped and her heels clacked on the pavement as she ran after him. He tried to speed up, but only made it to a slow, stumbling, pain-filled trot. Arizona stopped running, walked after him, looking around weapon in hand. He must’ve been delirious, in shock, because he headed up the ramp. Arizona didn’t run, just walked after the crippled man. I was a few feet behind her, made sure the one on the ground stayed on the ground. They vanished around a curve. When I caught up with the pandemonium, Arizona wasn’t walking anymore. She was focused, aiming, had her arm pulled back. Knife in hand. She slung her blade. A painful sound echoed from around the corner. Then Arizona was walking again, her steps a lot quicker. Dreadlocks was on the ground trying to pull a five-inch blade out of the back of his thigh. I told Arizona, “Your aim is pretty good.” “Was aiming at his neck.” “Your aim sucks” “Fuck you.” “Though I taught you better.” “Well, I’m not as good as you. But I’m good enough, dammit.” While Arizona stood over Dreadlocks and put pressure on the blade, I put my shoe stiff against the back of his neck, my weight pushing his face deep into the cold pavement. Fear rose up from the trembling man. Piss drained from between his legs and mixed with his river of blood. Death was all around. All this for the quest to be known as the best to ever do it in the land of No Limit. Arizona frowned at me. “Do you mind?” “Sorry.” I backed away, became her wingman. This was her show. I kept a lookout and let her have it her way. Arizona’s voice filled with anger as she demanded, Who hired you?” He refused to answer. She brought the bade out again For a moment I thought she was about to cut his throat. He battled with the hurting. She pressed on the knife. “See what I mean? Motherfuckers think I’m a joke.” Arizona brought the blade down into his arm; that improved his hearing and memory. “Lakenheath Skyler….Call came from some cat who’s last name is Skyler. Military guy. That’s all I know.” He tried to scream, but the blade had been moved to his neck; that muted his agony. “How much you get paid?” “Twenty-five hundred euros.” Either way Arizona was insulted at such a low offering. “Where you from?” “Haarlem” “You don’t sound like you’re from New York.” I interrupted, “His accent is Dutch. He’s talking about Harrlem in the Netherlands.” Arizona snapped at me, “Do you mind?” I raised my hand in apology. She took her fury back to Dreadlocks “Holland? You came from Holland?” He nodded again. “On the train. We came on the train.” “To kill me?” He didn’t answer. She pressed on that knife. Drew more blood. “Hurt you. Break your arms. Your knees. Cut off all your hair. Rape you. But we weren’t going to rape you. Honest.” “Just cut off my hair and break my knees and crush all my bones.” That’s all” Her eyes told me she was about to become a murderer. Then she backed away. She asked, “Are we done? Or do I need to take this to the next level?” Again he managed a nod, then he shook his head. I looked at Arizona. She shook her head. “Fucking amateurs.” Arizona knew what this was about. She took her blade, the blade that had her fingerprints all over the handle, and wiped the blood on the man’s coat, dropped the weapon inside her bag, and walked around the curve toward the edges of Chinatown, headed back the same way we had come with a generous pace. I called out to her, “What about your car?” “Not mine. Hot-wired it.” “That was quick.” “Used to be quicker. Leave it where it is.” A few seconds passed, enough time for Arizona to get to the first level. I headed toward the big guy I had taken down. He was fucked up, crawling across the pavement, trying to run away from his pain. I walked up by him. I dropped the brass knuckles inside my pocket. Looked back at the wrecked LUV and the men on the ground. I buttoned my coat, adjusted my scarf, and walked away. At the bottom of the ramp, hundreds of Asians were moving through the area, a few were looking at the mouth of the car park. They looked at it all from a distance. Maybe they had heard the whole thing. I expected them to either point fingers or run away from me. But they stood, smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and watched in silence. Like we were a show on HBO. Arizona was standing to my left, the way we had come. Head down, shoulders hunched, I headed that way. When I got to her, she pushed the Cds back into my hands. Two men lay bleeding on frozen concrete and we were back to that heated argument. “These were for you.” “Take them back to your hotel and give them to your concubine.” She moved on, shoulders hunched, her head down as well. Arizona lit up a Djarum, walked away blowing smoke, leaving the scent of cloves behind. I followed her. She’d become a female version of James Dean. She sped up. Now she was running from me, heading across St. Martin’s Lane into Covent Garden, her cell phone in hand. She was outside the tube station before she slowed down. My cell rang. I answered. “Stop following me.” “I’m trying to make sure you’re okay.” If I need you, I will call you.” “When I finish here, I want to get away from all this. I want to take you with me.” “Carmine, I’m not your girlfriend. Not trying to be. Never will be.” In a few words she stripped my heart down to nothing. This hurt more then losing the Sultan and losing the North American title put togther. I hung up. My phone rang. It was Arizona. “Look, on the business tip, I have another job for you.” “Outside of the work here in London?” “Holland. Looks like I need to send a message to someone in Holland.” “The Holland boys said they were working for Skyler.” “Don’t believe everything you hear.” “What do you know that I don’t know?” “Just handle Skyler. Holland will be there. Go do what you do best.” That put fire in my gut. At this very moment I could take on the world and WIN! So why not defeat a world champion! “Now on personal level, stop following me, Carmine. Please stop, okay?” She stopped and faced me, stood waiting for me to leave her alone. “No expectations, no disappointments.” She hung up. I did the same. Dark clouds clung to heaven’s floor, rain fell, I turned around, went the other way. Way down at least a block away, I thought I saw bandages on the nose of a bald man in a dark suit. The man from the airplane. He was turning around, hurrying away from me. Like he had been following me. Following us. Now he had been seen. I jogged to the corner and looked into the crowd. Didn’t see him. Saw lots of men in suits. But none were bald. Too many narrow streets feeding into narrow streets to check them all. Maybe paranoia and tiredness were teaming up with my guilt and making me see things. I rubbed my eyes and looked back. Hurried back toward where I had left Arizona. She was gone. Didn’t know if she had kept going through Covent Garden toward the Embankment or had hurried down into the tube station. I called Arizona’s cell. Her calls were being diverted. I left her a message. “I think those guys had a wingman. Be careful. Hit me back.” Rain fell soft and easy. I crossed into Leicester Square, heard the wail of ambulances roaring toward Chinatown, saw policemen on BMW motorcycles zooming the same way/ I kept going, made a right at TGIF, moved by theaters and pubs, zigzagged toward the red-light district, always looking back, or checking windows to see if I was being tailed. The way the city was laid out, all the narrow streets that fed into even narrower streets, with the number of tube stations and places to vanish in a instant, no wonder Jack the Ripper was never caught. I stopped at the edges of the red light district, an area that in the middle of the day, looked respectable; vendors were out in the cold selling fruit, fish, odds and ends. People were inside Somerfield food-shopping. Others were at the various porn stores, shopping there too. Men were slipping inside narrow doors that led to Russian and Asian pussy for sale. I looked up saw African whores, Spanish whores, red lights in almost every window. I moved on toward Oxford Circus, Joyellen on my mind. I’d find her one day. No matter where she’d run, I’d find her and finish what we’d started. I stopped and bought warmer clothes. Needed heavier jeans, thermals, a turtleneck, boots, and a short leather jacket that zipped. Had to dump what I had on, in case blood had splattered on me from the crime scene we’d just created. Thirty minutes later I came out in Soho looking brand new from head to toe and in between, dumped my old clothes, then hit the main drag at Oxford Circus, an area as busy as Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, blended with the crowd. I went down into the tube, waited on a Central Line train to take me to the northern line, would take that line one stop over to Goodge and get off there. I walked back to the room and grabbed my backpack. Had to take the tube to the Liverpool station. It was time to go visit a man on Arizona’s behalf. A champion. This was a merciless business. A different kind of coldness came and hugged me. The kind of iciness that came with my complex occupation. It was time to bundle up and go to work. My hands trembled again as I changed from the tube to the Stansted Express and headed toward horse-and-grass country. The place that in the summertime, with all the fertilizer in the air, they called horse-and smells-like-ass country. My hands trembled the entire forty-six minutes I was on the train, trembled as the airport came in sight. They wouldn’t stop trembling. As I exited the train, that feeling of death moved through me, tried to cling to me, but I shook it off. In the middle of the terminal, people all around me, I stopped walking. A wave hit me. Coldness. Followed by numbness. Followed by an almost unbearable heart. I looked down at the three Cds I still had in my hand. Memories of New York clung to me. I though about the fun we’d had in Chapel hill. I stuffed those Cds in my backpack and found my way to underground parking. I walked until I found a row of motorcycles, stopped in front of a BMW 1200. Light blue, helmet attached to locking strap. Keys were in my backpack. I took out a black key and a red key. The black key opened the sidesaddles, where I found gloves. Two small bottles were there as well. One was a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The other a special order. The same key also unlocked the helmet and started the engine. The bike was still warm. Hadn’t been here too long. Minutes after that, I was easing around the roundabout, getting a feel for the machine, then I was speeding down M11 north. Thoughts of Arizona, thought of the Reverend, thoughts about heartbreaking loses never left. As I changed from A11 to A14 and back to A11 again, as I zoomed down a two-lined highway by grass and horses and sheep, as I slowed for speed cameras as I entered Suffolk County, Miles, Wes, and Coltrane stayed on my mind. A champion’s death was due up to bat… - [ * * * ] - Have you ever stopped, and evaluated where you currently stand? It seems when were above all highs, we tend to forget that were up there. We tend to forget that there’s an entire world below you, trying to pull you back down to earth, back down to their level. All for the opportunity of one of those reaching hands, to climb up to atop, themselves. The moment, we forget is the moment we remember; how it is to be pulled down, your head ripped from cloud 9 where you though you’d forever hang. I’ve been up there myself, and I’ve been pulled down and ripped back into a world of reality. A world that tells me, I’m not unstoppable. And I’m glad, I’ve been pulled down to realize that. My opponent? He’s been in the clouds for way to long. He’s been living the illusion, that nobody is going to take away his title. This man, doesn’t realize the one hand reaching out for him, is the one hand that’s going to be single handily resulting in his down fall, a shame. Sometimes we have to remember, how it feels to be down on ground level. We need to remember how it feels to stretch our arms out, to reach and pull down that man above you in the rankings. Above you in status. I remember how it feels, Bucky Skyler? You too will remember how it feels, and once your down here? You’ll never forget. You’ll be just one of those tuggers, trying to pull that new man down. The new man, that is me. By god, lay witness to my writings. I will take what you have, and you’ll never get it back. No matter how hard you tug. You see, going up against you, I sat back and thought about things. I thought about that very same championship you wear strapped around your waist.. I asked myself, what makes the Heavyweight champion? Is it his smarts? Is it his strength? Is it his talent? Question after question, I quizzed myself and really thought about it. Thought about how you held that title around your waist for so long, and so many times. And I came to a conclusion. All along, Bucky Skyler. You’ve never faced a guy like me. You’ve never stepped out of your little box, to face top notch competition like myself. I must admit. You’ve built up an incredible worldly status of yourself. Everyone, everywhere seemingly knows your name and knows what your about. Bucky Skyler, dare I say it you’re even a bigger star than myself. But now, I really want you to think about that. I really want you to raise your head, and open your eyes and realize the box you’ve been placed in all along. Because with even your star status, even your glitz and glamour? Your standing across from me. I mean, who the fuck knew what I was about before I stepped into this promotion? No one. It’s funny though, isn’t it? I mean, no matter who I’ve beaten. No matter what fucking impact, I’ve made so far. It’s like, nobody can see it. Perhaps they don’t want too, perhaps they’re better off living in the world, where Bucky Skyler ponders around in his rose garden, as if nothing can touch him. Maybe, they’re comfortable there. It’s obvious the stars, the fans, and the promoters have predicted the champion to retain. Not because he’s talented, not because the challenger is more than capable to pull off the upset against the champion in a non-title match. But instead, because he’s the champion. The safe bet. The man who’s come through, many times before. They are in for a wake up call, and you are in for a wake up call, and it isn’t food service at your hotel door. You know, it’s usually the safe ‘’betters’’ that lose all their money. The one’s who claimed there was a dark horse in this promotion, which was going to walk through us like some door step door mat. Where are all the safe betters now, Bucky? I know exactly where they are. Right behind you, cashing in on your pocket book, trying to re-coup on their lost wages. Never do they learn. Bucky, what does the foundation your built on mean? It means nothing. Not a single fucking thing you’ve done in your entire life matters, because not a single thing has to do with me. That hurts doesn’t it? Because obviously the only thing you got going for you, is your past. Is your glorious history. There’s nothing on the table RIGHT NOW that tells me, I have something to worry about. Your whole shtick is what you’ve done in the past, not what you will do when we meet in the ring with each-other. This is the first and maybe only meeting you and I are going to have. I respect what you done in the past. I seen the old tapes I know what you are capable of doing, but I want to let you know I will not lose this match. This thing is special, this is my shot at being known as a contender here, rather then a pretender. I fight for myself, my own pride. I want to beat a man like you, because that will get people to sit up a notice me. You’re living in a state of self denial. You used to be good, Skyler. Now you’re putting on a front of the typical heel. In-between no showing. That’s something I’ll never understand, if you’re the face of this promotion, the champion why would you no show championship defenses? This match might be a masterpiece or not, but I guarantee that you will make the first mistake. Why do I say this? No, it’s not because I’m a megalomaniac, but because I’ve seen this happen so many times before. The cocky overconfident Vet looks the hungry new blood in the eyes and he starts to doubt himself. He starts to drip sweat and his eyes start to get shifty. He looks for an exit but the Young buck is there, watching and stalking his every move. The Vet has no other choice but to admit defeat to a tragic ending. It’s the fact of life, Bucky. It’s a fact that you won’t beat me. It’s a fact that you’re nothing. It’s a fact that I’m better. You know, Skyler, I am a few steps behind you. I’m behind you while I hold your deceased body for everyone to see. You’re the jobber in this match, not me. Bucky Skyler, bring you best game, act like your belt is up for grabs and find out quick that it doesn’t matter. I’m the Lion for a reason. I’m the future for a reason. I’m the one you where a long time ago. You’ll soon understand that what you’ve done to avoid your death has only quickened it. When this is all over and done, I’ll be the one walking tall with the masses buzzing about the epic victory over the king of No Limit. When this is done, you will be shell shocked into believing in God. You’ll be shell shocked into believing what everyone else has realized. You can’t beat me. Ever. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |