Page 64 of Guitars and Cages

“I know a place, but I don’t think I should send you over there. You’re a pretty good kid, Asher. I’d hate to see you get killed.”

“All the places you’ve sent me to, I’m still alive to tell the tale.”

He grinned, showing off teeth stained from his chewing tobacco.

“I’ve never sent you there before, but if you’re in such a rush, guess you’re not leaving me much of a choice. Of course, I could always loan you the money you need, let you work it off.”

I shook my head, trying not to cringe. I recalled well what it was like to work off a debt I owed to him.

“All right, but you know you’ll still owe me my fee if you lose. You take the chance of owing me twice if I have to loan you what you need after you already owe me.”

I leveled my gaze at him. “If I lose, I’ll take the loan and owe you both, but I don’t plan to lose.”

“I like that kind of confidence. Just make sure you back it up.”

He passed me a matchbook and a menthol that I quickly lit up. That was another thing I’d learned when I’d first met Catfish: you didn’t save the cigarette for later. You smoked it, so if anyone was watchin’ him, they’d think you’d stopped by for some conversation and to bum a smoke. The address was on the inside of the matchbook, you read it quick, committed it to memory, and then passed the matchbook back.

“Thanks, Catfish.”

“You’re welcome, kid, and good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

He was right. As soon as I stepped into the warehouse he’d sent me to, I knew I was going to need luck, and plenty of it. There was a cage set up in the center of a room full of yelling, betting people. A wooden platform served as the cage’s floor. I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and made my way to the guy who looked like he was in charge.

Like Catfish, he looked me over and shook his head.

“You lookin’ ta get yerself kilt?”

“No. Lookin’ to make some money, though.”

He snorted at that. “Gonna make me some money tonight is more like it. You ain’t got a chance in hell getting’ in my cage already busted up.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to lose, do you?” I told him, my eyes level and cold. He backed down; most people did. I’ve been told my eyes get all dead-looking when I stare like that.

“Guess not. Yer funeral.”

“Yeah, maybe it is.”

He motioned me to go stand near the cage, so I did, letting my eyes drift over the three or four other guys pacing and watching and warming up. Size don’t matter in a fight, no matter what some people might tell you. It’s skill that wins out in the end, and if the guys out here with me were anything like the pair duking it out in the cage, I already had the edge I’d need to win, ’cause I wasn’t gonna stand and throw punches, not in the shape I was in. I was gonna grab hold, drag my guy to the ground, and pound on him until I could submit him or knock him out for the win.

The fight ended when an uppercut sent one guy down, not to get back up again. A couple of his buddies went in and dragged him out, while a guy outside the cage decided who was gonna be next to fight. Lucky me, I got to stand there and watch another fight go on, but at least now I knew who I’d be facing. I watched him throwing flurries of punches, like a boxer trying to keep his hands warm. I watched his footwork, the duck and dodge, juke and jive of a practiced fighter used to being in between ropes, not inside a cage.

For a moment, I wondered what had pushed him to this point. Was it survival or was it simply greed? I quit that way of thinking quickly enough, though; it didn’t matter what he’d come here for, worryin’ about that would get my head knocked off. I studied his feet some more, glad he didn’t ever shift stances the way a martial artist would; with one foot behind the other for easy switches and kicks they could launch from the front leg as easily as from the back. A boxer this guy was, through and through, which meant it was gonna be hell getting in close enough for the clinch I’d need to take him down.

It didn’t take long for the fight to be over, and to be the one standing in the cage, staring across the ring at the other guy. This wasn’t like on TV; there was no guy to give the rules, no shaking hands, just people yelling “Fight!” So fight we did. It was bloody, mostly from the punches he threw in the beginning, because once I’d gotten him down and rained a few bombs on his head, he tried to roll, and I let him, took the back like I’d been taught and choked the hell outta him until he didn’t move. It hurt like hell dragging myself out of the cage. My hand throbbed, my head throbbed worse, and I wanted to vomit as I made my way to the man with the cash.

“You cost me.”

“Next time don’t bet against me,” I muttered, panting. I was gonna be sick, I knew it. I just had to hold it together for a few minutes more.

He thrust the money into my hands. “Take it and git the fuck outta here. Ya tell Catfish ah said e’s a mangy ol’ bastard fer sendin’ ya ’ere.”

I shoved the money in my pocket and walked away, managing to get out of the building before I puked my guts out against the cold stone wall. I felt a little better when I was done, though the walk back to River’s End was slow going. I took Catfish his cut, and sat nursing one of those Long Island Iced Teas with him as he told stories about “the good old days” when he was still young enough to be out there winning fights of his own. I hadn’t wanted the drink; it was making my stomach roil again, but it was never wise to refuse him anything. I hoped he wasn’t gonna ask for more than his cut tonight, because I wasn’t sure if I could manage.

I didn’t feel bad about fighting; I’d made what I needed to pay for Ghost’s surgery. I did feel bad when I listened to Catfish’s stories and wondered if one day I’d be sitting just like him, taking bets and telling stories of my own. This wasn’t the life I wanted twenty years from now; hell, this wasn’t the life I wanted to be living come next year, but what choice did I have? What would I say about the things I’d done? Was there anything in my life that I would be able to look back on with pride? Was I even capable of having pride in anything?

I finished the drink and started to say goodbye to Catfish, but he shook his head at me, and I swallowed down the dread that was turning my guts to ice.

“Come upstairs with me, Asher.”

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