Marsh leaves Flannery’s an hour later. She uses Casey’s shoulder to adjust the strap of her red pumps. They’re waiting for the car. Meghan catches a smoke downwind from them. He chats with another smoker outside of the entrance to the restaurant. Two Letters* are relaxed over the handle bars of their motorcycles bracing against the curb. The only thing shiny on either of the machines is the seal of Harley Davidson, the rest is dull from age and replacement. They were modified a dozen years back to run on the new fuel system. However, the Library installed a system to mimic the roar and revving of a diesel engine.
“Ya sure you wanna wear those to the Spit?” Casey asks.
“I need as much of Wilson’s attention as I can get, tonight,” she says, flicking back her hair. She sprit on hair spray to give her curls more bounce, but it feels like she should just wash it again. She flexes an ankle. “Even if he’s just starring at my ass, that’ll be enough.”
“Well, he’ll be doing that sure enough, I can tell you,” Casey says, adjusting his bowler cap. With his round face, he makes the hat look dashing, just like the old Irish Mafia members from the 1900s.
Marsh laughs. “What would your girlfriend say to that?”
He shrugs. “I’m pretty sure she’d agree.”
She pats his scruffy cheek. If she wasn’t so fond of his friendship and loyalty, she’d like to sleep with him. Headlights flash into her eyes and she watches as a black car rolls to a stop before them.
The driver, Paulie, rolls down a window and calls out, “Traffics gunna be heavy. Apparently some chick’s singing in 4 and there’s a lotta inter-district travel today cause of it.”
“Try to get us there before the fighting starts,” Marsh asks. Casey opens the door for her. Meghan jogs up and takes shotgun. The smell of cigarettes lingers on his clothes. It won’t be the most unpleasant smell she’s treated to tonight. The Letters escorting them start their engines, bumping each other on the fist before focusing on the task at hand.
Like the motorcycles, the car is older: a Ford focus sedan that’s replaced every piece on its frame except for the left side mirror. That’s still original and the most rusted part on the whole car. The inside, however, is smooth, pliant tan leather. No rips, scratches or tears. The body of the car resists bullets of most calibers and has been soundproofed. None of the noise of the city reaches Marsh once the door’s shut behind her. She leans her head against the window. It’s like sinking into a tub when she rides in the car, letting her ears hover underwater and staring at the white ceiling, dripping with perspiration.
“What would you like today, Tyro?” Paulie asks. He glances at her through the rear view mirror. She’s asked him to drive her around lately. No destinations, just passed the best views in the city over and over again until she’s pulled back for a meeting.
Marsh hums. “Pick, would you?”
“How about a treat for today?”
“I think I could use something sweet,” she admits.
Casey crosses his legs and leans his head back. He closes his eyes.
Meghan settles into the leather with a sigh.
“Hi, this is Kasey Kasum…”
MK shivers at his voice. Her stomach loosens. If her life could be this, every day, she would be content and some days, she thinks that might be enough. Listening to reruns of Kasey Kasum’s show isn’t a bad way to live life.
[/hr]
Marsh blinks. Her finger tips buzz and her mouth is fuzzy. She swallows.
“And she awakens!”
She breathes deep, expanding her stomach and dissipating the lingering sleepiness. “How long have I been out?”
“Oh,” Casey checks his analogue watch. “An hour?”
She jolts up. “Seriously?”
“No, try ten minutes. Water?”
MK rolls her eyes and takes a sip from the bottle. She runs her tongue along her teeth, feeling for any leftover corned beef. She takes a compact from her purse and fluffs her hair.
Casey scoffs, “Trust me, you don’t gotta worry about that. He’ll be distracted by your other fine features.”
She raises an eyebrow. “How tactful,” she says and snaps the compact shut. “Well, I guess that’s my intention.”
“He won’t be the only one,” Casey warns.
She pats his shoulder. His leather jacket is cracking at the elbows. “That’s what I got you for isn’t it?”
Casey rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the car floor.
“What?” she asks, leaning away. Meghan and Paulie share a joint outside, leaning against the car, and chatting.
It comes out in one sentence: “It’s Darth he’s in tonight and he tears people up and watching him always puts me in a rioting mood and then I kinda betted Jace that Darth would take down his opponent in the second round in a choke hold and I might’uv put down more than I actually got liquid.”
MK groans and squeezes her eyes shut, a hand covering her face.
“Tyro, I’m sorry. I should have forfeited as soon as you told me we were going to take a trip out here.”
She waves him away. “God no that’s not it. Well, yes, you should have pulled out. But Wilson’s going to be in a royal mood.”
Casey’s jaw slackens. “Ain’t he always?”
“Yes, but he’s developed this,” she shakes her head and flounders for the word. “Grudge against Darth. Honestly, the fighter probably has no idea the Librarian developed such an interest in him.”
“Why?” Casey scratches at his hair line.
“Wilson’s lost too many bets due to Darth. And he hates it when someone aside from him wins all the time.”
He nods, looking ready to agree, but closes his mouth in time before he makes the mistake of agreeing with any of her husband’s reasoning after what he cost the Library last night.
“He’s probably been working since the match was set to find a way to fix the fight. Making trouble, spending money. He’ll have invested a lot, maybe more after the Den was burned down. It’s more about saving face with him at this point. Christ.” Marsh chews on her thumbnail.
Casey pulls her hand away from her mouth. “You need to start painting your nails again or something?”
She sighs. “Bad habits and all that.”
Meghan taps on the tinted windows before opening her door. The cool damp spring air blows in and works its way across her exposed skin. She shivers.
“Just got the confirmation.” Meghan leans into the car. “The Librarian’s here.”
MK nods.
“And news got passed to Boss about your gift. He’s waiting in the VIP lounge.”
“Wilson with him?”
“Nope, ‘parently the Librarian’s been barred from there for almost six months now.”
Marsh steps out of the car, taking Meghan’s hand for stability. The two Letters stand at attention on the side walk outside off the Spit, redirecting people so there’s a buffer zone around the second in command of D12’s gang.
She nods in approval. They don’t bully anyone—this isn’t their turf and they’re here by permission. A few meaningful glances and aggressive body language does the trick. Grunge music comes from the wide doors ahead of her. The heat of hundreds of bodies warms the air.
Some people turn their heads, snap a picture, or call out, but a majority of the crowd is concerned with maintaining their position in line.
“Tyro of the Library,” someone says from the entrance of the Spit.
She smiles at Billy. He’s one of the Spit’s managers and an on-again-off-again lover of hers. “Hello stranger, good to see business going as well as ever.” Marsh goes to him. Meghan and Casey follow. Paulie calls out a goodbye.
“Only made richer by your presence,” he says, pulling her into a hug and kisses her cheek. “I’m told you’ve come barring gifts as well.”
She grins, the left side of her mouth lifting more than the other. “I took your advice from when we last met,” she says. He squeezes her hip, guiding her into the club. He’s smaller than the type of man she prefers, but he’s an attentive lover and professional outside of the bedroom so she’s learned to enjoy his tapered waist and clean, shaved face and head. One of Billy’s men muscles his way through the crowd towards the upper deck. Casey touches Marsh’s back to remind her that Meghan and he were right behind.
The upper deck is less crowded. There are places to sit and a private bar, but aside from that VIP lounge isn’t in better shape than the rest of the Spit. Leaning against one of the rails, waiting for Billy to call her over to his boss, she can see the extent of the Spit. The cage centered in the middle of the venue. People banging on the walls for the fight to start already. Red solo cups empty and discarded on the floor. A couple making out against the bar. The tender, getting a bucket of ice ready to help chill out the crowd if they start heading towards the liquor without paying for it. A baseball bat sits on the back counter within easy reach as well.
“MK,” Casey says. Marsh turns towards him and the business at hand. Billy waves her over to a private booth. Two, small, equally lithe men remain on either side of the booth, their eyes pausing on her breasts before moving on and keep track of the rest of the guest in the lounge.
Boss doesn’t touch her. He stands, nods, accepts her gift, and gesture for her to sit. He doesn’t look to see what’s in the bag—he already knows and trusts her enough to believe that it’s actually inside. Boss’s a short man with almond eyes. He’s aged well and his wrinkles are minimum around his eyes and mouth and the result of years of frowning and squinting at the opponent across from him in the cage. He’s grown his hair longer from the typical fighter buzz cut. He’s one of the oldest living survivors to have fought at the Spit, clocking in at 46. Life expectancy of fighters here is low: either they die in the ring or they die in the street as a result of a fight.
“I could run the Spit off of your husband’s money alone,” Boss says.
“Oh, I’m aware,” Marsh sits, adjusting her clothing. Exposed skin won’t do anything for this man and she rather feel professional while in his presence.
“You’re not here to make him stop gambling.”
“As if that’d be possible.”
New music funnels through the club. She leans in closer.
Boss’ eyes narrow. “You have more power than you think.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll not allow myself to exaggerate my charisma. Besides, I rather not waste it on him,” she says with a smile.
He nods and relaxes back. They sit in mismatched lounge chairs that are positioned towards the cage. Casey’s eyes haven’t left the view of the cage they can see from this position. Boss’ light blue suit matches his complexion and brown eyes. “Then, why the bribe?”
She chuckles. “That’s not a bribe. It’s a loan. We’re called a Library, not a book store.”
His eyes linger on the sleek black case. “No courier.”
“That’s the gift,” she acknowledges. “Please return it at your leisure.”
His only his bottom lips twitches. “Very generous.”
“I was tempted to bring a record of the Sex Pistols, but I decided it would look as if I was trying to hard.” She wrinkles her nose. It’s an act of careful movements and body language. Boss is familiar with feinting and he grins. It’s a joke between people like them who make their living on smoke screens and careful planning.
The music changes again and Boss’ shoulders droop.
“Excuse me,” he says and stands up. Billy and his men take a moment to clear the rail of anyone before Boss approaches. Meghan stays by Marsh’s side as Casey edges forward to catch Darth looping into the cage like the wild animal that he his.
MK sips at the club soda provided for her and watches Boss’ body language over the rim of her glass. She’s not the only one with an in-house trouble maker.
Boss says something to one of his men while the fight is still going on and then comes back to Marsh’s side, standing next to her.
“I’m afraid you won’t have much of your husband’s attention tonight,” he says, his eyes tilt to where Casey leans over the railing, shouting profanities at Spike: “This is my fucking life too, ya know, you grandmother’s pussy, move outta the—are you fucking with me on purpose—”
“Yeah, well, I’ll do my best.”
“And none of my men will interfere?”
MK finishes her drink and stands. “That’s all I ask. It’s best for the Library.”
Boss leans in. She stiffens. Maybe she misread him. And here she was thinking that maybe she could get away unmolested—
“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer,” he quotes Albert Camus. This close, she sees when his mouth quirks up. The crowd roars in approval. The smoke of hundreds of burning cigarettes hovers in the balcony air. Someone switches on a loud ventilation system. The back of her neck prickles as cold air finds its way into the Spit.
“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower,” she replies. Meghan touches the small of her back. She schools her features and nods. Boss's declaration of loyalty took her aback, but she has time to address its implications after tonight.
Boss bows and allows her to pass. Billy hovers in the background, his face tight with curiosity and the scar near the corner of his mouth twists as a result. Casey curses and slams his fist against the railing watching as Darth looses patience with his opponent. He exchanges a few words with other bystanders. MK doesn’t wait for him.
“Where’s Wilson—”
The noise of the crowd rises up again. The metal catwalk beneath her feet vibrates with clapping, stomping and shouting. She can’t hear the music anymore. Everything around her is distorted. The gray cement walls, Meghan’s cap, Darth’s movements in the cage below.
Billy waves her to follow. People linger on the steps, vying for a better view. Her body brushes against strangers, her shirt stretching when it watches on to the zipper of another person. They don’t have time to curse at her. The crowd surges forward. Darth lands another brutal hit on an already downed opponent. Meghan grips Marsh’s arm, keeping her beside him. Someone steps on her toes. She hisses. Why did she think it was a good idea to come here?
“Mary Mother of Balls!”
Wilson.
“What the fuck is this.”
She can’t see him, but she’s accustomed to his shouting after six years of marriage. She knows it like she knows the weight of John Mischner’s books and hot tea scalding her tongue or how Bon Iver’s voice trembles through her when he sings
Skinny Love.
“Pussy. PUSSY. God. Damn. Pussy. Bitch.” The expletives continue.
She can see the back of his head now. His shaggy brown hair. In the darkness, it shines from too long without a shower. She can see the vertebrae on his neck beneath his skin. She saw him two weeks ago, but it seems as if he’s deteriorated farther into his drug addiction. How much longer can his body hold out?
Maybell sees them approach. She’s a thick woman with arms bunched from hours at the gym and a cleft lip that makes her seem meaner than she actually is. She’s hopeless in love with Wilson, but also the only woman that he hasn’t tried to have sex with. Instead, he uses her. He knows his loyalties are limited in Library. He might be belligerent, abusive, and smell like a festering toilet most days but he survived this long as the Librarian for a reason.
“My favorite fuck!” Wilson slaps her ass when MK’s in arms length. She tenses. Closes her eyes. Trying to cover her true feeling in anger, cool indigence, anything but embarrassment and shame. She’ll have time to feel that when she’s isolated in the closet of her bedroom.
She doesn’t recognize the men and women sharing the cramped, filthy booth with him. They don’t seem concerned by her. They’re not from D12, then.
“They need to leave,” she tells Meghan. He grabs the nearest one and starts hauling them out of them booth. Maybell stands to the side, hands at her side.
“Bye-Bye.” Wilson grins and waves at his evicted companions. His teeth are yellow and caked with plaque. His smile used to be straight and charming. It was the main reason she thought she loved him. “Come to bring me good luck, baby?”
“The Library is restless. They need you to assure them that last night wasn’t an attack by another gang,” she says, standing in front of his view of the cage.
He hums and reaches for her hips. On the table are used needles and empty bottles of beer. He pulls her in. His dirty hands will leave an imprint on her white shirt. His stubble scratches at the soft skin of her belly as he noses his way passed her clothing. She stares at the back wall and keeps talking because if she stops—
“If you don’t make a statement, I will have to. Our people need to know that we are protecting them—Ouch!”
Wilson shoves her back. Meghan’s there to steady her. Billy bounces on his toes from the sidelines. Two of his men stand shoulder to shoulder, creating a barricade between them and the rest of the crowd.
“Whore,” Wilson says. “You’ve been sleeping with other men. You’re not fit to be called Tyro.”
She presses a hand into her stomach where he bit her. She’s not bleeding. She’ll deal with her fear and shame later, she numbs it down with her duty towards her people.
“Maybe the title doesn’t fit me,” she agrees. She stares down at his state of decay: the white of his eyes turning yellow; the split fingernails; the bald spot near his left temple; the sallow cheeks; the sweat stained shirt. She decides that tonight she will have sex because it will help remind her that she’s more than a young woman who screamed for help, but no one came to the door even though the Librarian’s main estate hums with the comings and goings of D12’s gang members at all times of the day
