Black Mountain (9780735212909) by Barron Laird

Author:Barron, Laird
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2019-05-06T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Upon flying home to Rosendale, I went straight to my girl and my dog. Dinner, drinks, and mindless comedy on the tube unkinked the knots my muscles had formed over the past three days. It was like crawling from beneath an anvil. I spent the night wrapped in Meg’s arms. Borrowing her warmth helped. We’d grown attuned to our respective moods. I didn’t ask what latest domestic disaster had occurred in my absence and she didn’t ask what had happened during the foray to Michigan.

The next morning, I booked an appointment with Marion Curtis. I requested an in-person meet to accept the weekly retainer fee. Time had finally come for the dreaded face-to-face. Curtis was, in his words, busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Since he suspected I had juicy intel for him, he granted me a fifteen-minute audience.

We rendezvoused at the abandoned YMCA near the river in Poughkeepsie. While the YMCA logo had been removed and much of the sprawling, ancient structure shuttered since the latter aughts, sections remained lighted and in operating order. Somebody somewhere evidently forked over installments to avoid the bulldozers and wrecking balls. Private parties were welcome to rent the facilities—the mob used it as a clubhouse.

A wiseguy rocking a pompadour buzzed me through the security entrance and said Mr. Curtis awaited in the gymnasium. The wiseguy patted me down. He dropped my gun, knife, and brass knuckles into a plastic container like the type used at airports. He pointed. I followed red LED signs along dim corridors, down short flights of stairs, up short flights of stairs, and from light to darkness and into light again. Easy place to get lost despite the signage. The building was a cavernous maze and I hadn’t thought to bring a spindle of twine.

Muffled shouts and the harsh squeal of rubber soles on parquet flooring guided me to my destination. I scented the alluring tang of blood and adrenaline before I got there. A dozen rough men gathered near the far free throw line. The busted-nose and cauliflower-ear set. They wore T-shirts and sweats and were divided into teams of red and blue. Some of them leaned forward, hands on knees. One guy lay prone, his arm flung over his head. Nary a basketball in sight.

I’d seen this exhibition at the “classier” backwaters—a no-holds-barred mixed martial arts format popular in Russia and the former Eastern Bloc countries. Two teams of men faced each other in parallel lines and charged at the whistle in a semi-organized gang rumble. I winced at the barbarity of performing these antics, even with shoes on, on an unyielding surface.

Blood sport isn’t my bag, although I’ll make an exception for humans.

Three stern gentlemen in striped shirts and black pants circulated among the fighters, checking for broken bones and concussions. Off to the side, an amateur crew fiddled with a bank of lights and a Panaflex 35mm. The crew bitched and argued and exchanged idle threats. None of them were certain how to operate the circa 1970s camera.

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