Page 32 of Dirty

“Just hold on,” Duntz said. “I just found out. I just got a call from one of the guys Le Brock trains with. He thought it wasn’t fractured. Up until about an hour ago, he was still going to fight. On the way here, it started bothering him, and--”

“Bullshit!” someone yelled.

“Crowd’s getting’ restless,” Lefty said.

“Just wait,” I said, looking around the crowd of angry drunken men. “Someone will start shoving people here in a minute.”

“Motherfuckers shove anyone in our direction, and I’ll stomp their ass,” Pee Bee said.

Lefty took a drink of beer, looked at Crip, and shook his head. “Fucking shame. That Marine’s undefeated, and I was hoping that Le Brock fucker’d knock him out. Big bastard reminds me of that guy we saw fight in Tijuana back in the day.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Which Marine is it?” I asked.

Oceanside had a Marine base, and the city was littered with Marines, both active duty and retired. It was impossible to knew them all, there were thousands of them.

“That big fucker from the Bronx,” Pee Bee said. “The one they call ‘The Butcher’.”

“Oh.”

The Butcher was pretty well-known in the area. 220 pounds of marine muscle, and he was a boxer before he was a Marine. Declared mentally unfit to continue training with the military due to PTSD, he stuck around Oceanside and drank beer with his fellow brethren, and got into bar fights with anyone dumb enough to fight him.

When he wasn’t fighting bare knuckles matches, he was generally spending the weekend in jail on a battery charge that someone would later drop for fear of repercussion.

“I know this is going to be a big fucking mess,” Duntz shouted, “But unless someone’s willing to step in and fight The Butcher, I’m going to have to set up a table for refunds at the door.”

As the crowd began to boo and hiss at the thought of the night ending early, Pee Bee nudged me. “Fight the fucker, Cholo.”

“Shit,” I said. “I’ve had three beers and a belly full of barbeque. I haven’t got any business fighting anybody.”

“I’ll pay $1,000 to anyone who’ll step up,” Duntz shouted.

“A grand to get your skull busted open,” Lefty said. “Notice none of these beer-bellied pricks are volunteering.”

“Fight his ass, Peeb,” Lefty said.

“Shit,” Pee Bee said. “Maybe in the bar. Not here.”

Pee Bee was as mean as a snake, but there was a big difference between fighting someone who knew how to box, and fighting some random bad-ass in a bar or in an argument. Personally, I wouldn’t want to fight Pee Bee in a bar fight.

Standing in the tape, however, he wouldn’t get a single punch in.

“This is bullshit,” someone screamed. “Fuck you, Duntz!”

A mild shoving match started on the other side of the makeshift ring. As Duntz attempted to calm the men who were arguing, Crip let out a sigh.

“Well, someone’s gonna need to either fight this asshole, or we’re going to have to get out of here. I can see this ending poorly.”

“$2,500,” Duntz shouted. “I’ll give $2,500 to any fighter who’ll step in and--”

I handed Crip my half-full bottle of beer and stepped into the tape. “Make it $5,000.”

“My take’s about $3,000,” he said. “Give or take. I can’t go $5,000. I’ll go $2,750.”

I turned around. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Give the Beaner five grand,” I heard someone shout. “I want to see him get his ass kicked.”

I spun around and glared toward the sound of the voice. Thirty people’s eyes shot to look in another direction.