Savage code, p.12
Savage Code, page 12
part #4 of The Porter Series
“Any reason we can’t leave?” Porter said.
“We need to talk about the truth.”
Porter glanced behind him. The security guards were slowly moving in. Rivera’s jaw was set, a determined look on her face.
“Truth? She’s a cop,” Porter said, playing the only card he could. “You really want to be pointing a gun at a cop?”
“Cop? Really? Then show me your badge, Miss Lady.”
Rivera cursed under her breath.
“See? Another lie! And I can’t stand liars.”
“Fine, you got me, I lied. Big deal. Drop the gun, we’ll get out of here and you’ll never see me again.”
“I don’t think so. I need to get some truth from you. See, mi madre told me, ‘Osito, the truth will set you free.’”
“Clever,” Porter said. “Let me tell you something my good ol’ fashioned born-in-the-Midwest mom used to tell me.”
Osito gestured with the revolver. “Well?”
“Shut up. You talk too much.”
“Still funny. Let’s see if we can get you to talk a little bit more.” The club owner gave a head nod to the men behind Porter. As soon as the first one grabbed Porter’s arm, he was moving.
He slammed his head backward, into the mouth and nose of the guard, dropping him to the floor. Two more men tried to tackle him and wrap him up. He was still holding the blackjack shoe, and he brought it smashing down on one of their heads. It cracked in two.
Porter dropped the shoe and grabbed the man who was clinging to his waist. He launched a volley of knees into the guard’s midsection, until he felt the man go limp and slide off him. Porter turned and faced the rest of the guards behind him.
“You all should have called in tonight.”
As he stepped forward, something slammed into his head. He didn’t see it, but he was sure a Buick had run him over.
Then, everything was calm.
Twenty-Three
Porter was in his old home again. The flames, the phones, the heat.
Trish.
This time, he was able to move off the spot he’d been anchored to. He walked around and watched as his world melted around him. He looked at his ex-wife, and for once he wasn’t sad. He wasn’t upset. This wasn’t his fault. He walked to the kitchen and turned the sink on as the metal of the faucet melted to slag. He tried to throw water on it, until the cabinet opened and hit him in the face.
Porter opened his eyes.
“There you are. I was worried you might not wake up again.”
Osito was sitting on a chair in front of him. The hard concrete around him echoed the club owner’s words as he spoke. To Porter’s left was some sort of shower. To the right, a big metal door.
“You know, this used to be a meat-packing plant. They brought the carcasses back here to clean then before moving on to the butchering in the next room. That why there are drains on the floor.”
“That’s convenient,” Porter said. For the first time, he tried to move his arms. They were bound behind him. His legs, too. He blinked hard for a few moments, then asked, “Where’s my girl?”
“She’s safe… for now. I may do a lot of distasteful things, but messing with a woman isn’t how I operate. Mi madre would roll over in her grave, climb out, and kill me herself. Still, she is the least of your problems.”
Porter took a moment to process that Rivera was okay, a small part of him wondering if Osito was lying to him. He chose to believe the man. “What are my problems, other than this fucking headache I’m dealing with?”
“Forgive me. When you hit my man with the blackjack shoe, it gave Josué an idea. Looks like it worked on your head as well. It was apparent that my only two choices were to kill you, or hit you in the head and hope you went to sleep. You were making my men look like amateurs.”
Porter spat toward the drain near Osito’s Gucci loafers. His tongue probed his mouth, finding a cut that must have happened after he landed. “You should pay for better help.”
“The businessman’s dilemma.” Osito shrugged. “See, I try not to let there be too many people around at any time. I like to use the same people. I know them. I trust them. Mi madre used to say, ‘Keep the grass cut really low, and that’s when you can see the snakes coming.’”
“That’s how you knew I was after you? Your grass was cut low?”
Osito’s hoarse laugh echoed off the concrete. “Even I’m not that good. No, I got a call from an associate of Mr. Camelot. A man named Antonio. Apparently he wasn’t too happy about having his fingers broken, and it seems he carries a grudge.”
“Figures,” Porter said.
The two men were silent for several moments. Porter, trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, and Osito, legs crossed, leaning back in his metal folding chair.
“So, are you gonna talk, or are we just gonna sit here all night?”
“I suppose you would like that,” Osito said. “Sitting here. Much safer than the alternative, no?”
Porter didn’t answer.
“I have a dilemma. You seem like a smart man, maybe you can help me figure it out.”
“I aim to please,” Porter said.
“Normally, I would have killed you by now. Right where you’re lying, as a matter of fact. Limpio el piso, wash the blood down the drain, and then stick you in one of my freezers. A quick trip to a barrel, then you’re never seen or heard from again.”
“I’m thinking I’ll take whatever option two is.”
“Yes. Option two. Thing is, people come to my club and they drink and gamble, but that is not my favorite thing. No, not at all. I grew up watching the fights. I loved all the greats, but especially mis boricuas. Men like Felix Trinidad and Miguel Cotto. ‘Macho’ Camacho too, rest his soul.” Osito made the sign of the cross in front of him.
“I can’t introduce you to any of them,” Porter said.
“Still funny. Payaso.”
“I’m not a clown. I just want you to get to the point.”
“My point, payaso, is that people stay for my fights. My problem is, I don’t have a fight tonight. My champ has no partner. The man who was supposed to fight him turned up in the river this morning. I don’t know why; I ask no questions.”
“I’m sure it was a coincidence,” Porter said.
“So, my proposal is this: fight my man tonight. Everyone here saw your little display in the casino. There is buzz building. People are saying you could take the champ. I don’t believe it, but who am I to say?”
“You want me to fight… for you?”
Osito nodded.
Porter forced himself into a seated position and scooted himself again the brick wall behind him. “What’s in it for me?”
“I already told you about the barrels; do you really need to ask?”
“That’s not enough.”
“Of course I’ll let your girl go as well. No harm done to her.”
“Still not enough.”
Osito scrunched up his face. “I’m not sure what else you want. Camelot?”
Porter laughed. “I don’t give a shit about him. I need some information from you.”
“This is different. People usually don’t beg for their life and ask me for a favor at the same time.”
“If I beat the champ man, you tell me what you did with Royce Michelson.”
Osito didn’t answer. He leaned forward on his knees and stared at Porter for a few moments. “Why would you assume I know anything about that person?”
“We both know you had your goons take the kid. I want to find him, simple as that.”
Osito paused for a few beats, then stood. “Some things are best not spoken of. I’d suggest you worry about getting you and your beautiful girl out of here.”
“You want me to fight, those are my terms.”
The club owner smoothed his jacket down. “I don’t think so. I think you talk a big game, but at the end of the day, everyone wants to save their life. When it comes down to it, if you can get out of here while you’re still breathing, it will be enough for you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Porter said.
“I guess we'll find out. Beating my guy is hard enough, so worry about that.”
With that, Osito turned on his heel and left the area through the open metal door. Moments later, three men with small guns attached to slings around their necks came in the room.
“Not taking any chances, huh?” Porter said.
One of the men used his foot to roll Porter onto his belly, then cut the ties that held him in place. “Boss says if you need to warm up, go for it. He also said to shoot you if you act weird.”
Porter came to his knees, then pushed himself to his feet. He leaned against the wall while the feeling came back into his feet. Everything below his wrists was numb. His right hand was swollen, puffy around the edge. He remembered the pain that had jolted through his arm when he’d leveled the security guard on the floor.
He slowly rolled his fists around, forcing blood back into the appendages. He ran through his options as he did.
There were no windows in the room he was in. No doors, other than the metal one barred by guys with sub-machine guns. He didn’t doubt they’d shoot him and wash the blood down the old floor drain if he acted froggy.
Porter had no idea where Rivera was. He had no idea where Camelot was either, not that he’d be any help. He had no phone. Porter was alone, in the tightest of spots. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and let his head rest on the cool brick of the wall.
He took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes. Sometimes, the only way out was through.
Taking stock, he found himself to be in pretty good shape. The blood was pumping to his limbs again and he had good control of himself. He was sure his hand was broken—a boxer’s fracture, the result of the sloppy punch he’d thrown at the bottom of the staircase. He silently admonished himself for his carelessness, and resolved to refrain from using the hand as much as he could.
There were plenty of other weapons he could use, and he had no problem putting them all into play. Besides, Osito’s champ or not, it was a rare day when one man could take him. He wasn’t cocky, just sure of himself and the skills he’d learned over a lifetime of living a rough life.
Porter wasn’t sure of much, but he knew that whomever he was fighting was going to have their hands full. He was going to make sure of that.
And then the champ walked into the room.
Twenty-Four
Harsh gritted his teeth as he walked, having left the club and made it to the sidewalk. He needed to decide which way to walk back to his efficiency apartment. There would be no money for him tonight, and the walk would calm him down.
Osito had told him his opponent pulled out. This wasn’t new; people ran from him all the time. Frustrating, but not surprising.
The sound of dress shoes clicking on the concrete behind him caught his attention. He turned and watched Osito make his way up the sidewalk, blazer billowing in the breeze behind him. “Champ.”
Harsh didn’t say anything, instead looking left and right again at his travel options.
“We managed to find you someone. You down?”
“Quién?” Who?
“Does it matter? Can you afford to turn down a fight? I’ve seen how you’re living.”
Harsh wanted to say something—or better, drive his fist through Osito’s face. He felt owned, like a gladiator or even less. A slave. As he thought of all the ways he knew to tell Osito to pound sand, one word slipped out of his mouth. “Okay.”
“That’s what I thought. Now get in there and get ready. Do your little prayers or whatever.” Osito turned on his heels and strutted away from Harsh.
Harsh walked back through the club, making his way past the people, who seemed rowdier than normal, as if everyone were running off extra energy or adrenaline.
He didn’t like a fight on last-minute notice. He needed time to get his mind ready. To concentrate and prepare. Pray. This was going to be rushed now.
Harsh hated being rushed.
He stepped past the weak men Osito employed, with their guns and jackets, and walked into the shower area to prepare. There was another man there. His opponent. His head against the wall, his back to Harsh. Harsh stopped for a moment and looked at the intruder. He turned back to the men at the door.
“Sorry, champ, boss man says we have to keep this guy here for right now.”
Harsh shook his head no.
“What do you want me to say? I just do what they tell me.”
Harsh grunted and stepped fully into his warm-up area. It was bad enough the normal schedule was being made a mockery of, but this was disrespectful. Seeing his opponent this close, being forced to warm up near him.
It was a travesty.
Still, Harsh took a moment to appraise the intruder. He was easily the biggest he’d fought for Osito. Well-built and broad-shouldered, he had the look of a man who had been something once, but hadn’t pushed himself. Too little time at the gym, too much time sitting around.
Harsh hated sitting around.
“You the guy?” the Opponent said.
Harsh didn’t answer. Instead he moved past the man, to his usual corner. He slipped his bag off his shoulder and rummaged through it.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” The Opponent was pacing slowly back and forth. “Kind of messed up they have us in here together, right? I mean, how does Osito know I won’t just strangle you to death right here?”
Harsh stopped going through his bag and turned toward the Opponent.
“I figured that would get your attention.”
Harsh stared at the Opponent. His bold words made Harsh look him over again. The physical traits were as he’d first noticed—big, probably strong, and with a decent amount of speed.
None of those would be enough to defeat Harsh.
There was something different about the Opponent. Something most of his opponents didn’t have: confidence. The Opponent wasn’t scared. Most men were. It was easy to see in their eyes. No matter how they tried to hide it, or how much they talked before the fight, Harsh could almost smell it as it rolled off them.
The Opponent wasn’t afraid. And Harsh found that interesting.
He went back to looking through his bag, trying to find his matches, as the Opponent talked to the men guarding the room.
“Look, I’m about to go fight this guy, the least you guys can do is get me some info.”
“Boss said not to talk to you.”
“Shit, you’re talking to me right now. Since you’re already bad at your job, why not tell me?”
The guard, Frankie, sighed.
“Look, all I want to know is what happened to a kid. That’s the whole reason I’m here. I know ‘Little Bear’ had him kidnapped, I’m just trying to find some more info.”
Harsh’s ears perked up at the word “kidnapped.”
“Like I’d tell you anything,” Frankie said. “Now step back.”
The Opponent took a step back. Harsh finally found his matches and pulled out his candle, carefully set it on the counter, and touched the flame to the wick.
“I’m just wondering if you had anything to do with it. Did you help your boss kidnap a kid?”
“Shut up,” Frankie said.
“What’s the matter? Don’t like thinking about what a scumbag you are?”
“I said shut up.”
The Opponent turned to him. “What about you, big man? You help your boss steal a kid?”
Harsh didn’t answer, instead closing his eyes, trying to concentrate.
“I guess you’re the same as these guys—a gutless coward like the rest of them.”
Harsh slammed his fist on the counter, knocking over his candle and sending it flying. “Enough.”
“So you can talk.” The Opponent walked across the floor and picked up his candle. “St. Nicholas? Patron saint of fighters. I’m no Catholic, but I was always partial to Michael.”
The Opponent walked over to him and stuck his candle out, held in an upturned palm. “Finish praying. I won’t interrupt you anymore. I don’t want any excuses after I’m done with you.”
Harsh eyed the Opponent, glaring at him, then reached out and took the candle. The Opponent stepped back, their eyes never wavering from each other’s.
“See? You get ready, big man.”
“Harsh,” Frankie said from the door. “His name’s Big Harsh.”
The Opponent started to laugh. “First I meet a pimp named Camelot, then I meet a fighter named Big Harsh? New York’s a strange place.”
“It is what it is,” Frankie said. “I just figured you’d want to know the name of the freight train you’re going to get run over by.”
“I guess we’ll see which way the tracks are running soon enough,” the Opponent said.
Harsh continued his ritual, so badly interrupted by all the men there. But he tried his best, and in the end, had to settle for what he could do. It was okay; no reason to affect him.
He blew out the candle and packed it away.
The Opponent was on his end of the room, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. “I never get to get ready before a fight. It’s kind of nice to get a minute to warm up.”
Harsh ignored the Opponent. He took his sweatshirt off, then his T-shirt. He dug around in his bag for the tight, long-sleeved Under Armour shirt he wore for fighting.
“Nice ink,” the Opponent said. “I can see why you wear sleeves.”
Harsh didn’t answer, instead pulling on the tight shirt. He used to fight shirtless, but that wasn’t an option now. He adjusted the black shirt, then pulled two ammonia caplets from his bag and broke them open. He held them up to his badly broken nose, breathing as deeply as he could.
“You seem all right. How did you end up working for this lousy bastard?”
“Yo no trabajo para él,” Harsh said. I don’t work for him.
“Really? I’m here because they have a literal gun to my head. I don’t see one pointed at you.”
“Peleo,” Harsh said. I fight.
“So you’re a sub-contractor, you just show up and get paid? The money you make from your fights is still blood money. Think about that next time you light a candle.”
