"Eight": Salamanca

#: Salamanca

I’m a tough guy. It sounds like bravado, I know. But I’ve been in enough street, bar and back alley fights to know myself I’ve dropped guys a hundred pounds heavier, guys who’ve trained in the martial arts, and guys that had never been dropped since they got too big for their daddies to slap around. Plus, I run into burning buildings for a living.

On the other hand, the situation I’ve gotten myself into is way out of my league. Rocky is a good friend and all, but he’s a cop and therefore I can’t trust him. I don’t know Rocky would take me in if I explained that I was the man who shot and killed Luis Colón, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I just don’t think it’s fair to put him in that position, so I keep my mouth shut. I do need help, though, and the only guy I can think of who can help is an old high school acquaintance of mine, Tony Salamanca.

His office is stuck in a corner of Utica that I usually only go to if there’s a fire. I have plenty of time on the rainy drive from my house to the city to contemplate what I’m going to say to him. My wiper blades squeak across the windshield, their pitch seeming to ask “Whaaat? Whaaat?”

I know Tony Salamanca from high school, but when I moved back to the area, he wasn’t exactly the first guy I thought to look up. Tall, tough and wiry, he makes his living as a bounty hunter, an occupation that is surprisingly lucrative in our area. He still wears his hair in a mullet under a baseball cap. If I had ever seen him in anything but a black leather jacket, usually of the motorcycle variety, faded jeans, also black, and beat up Timberlands, I don’t recall the occasion. He’d been in the Marines and, like me, had originally thought to go into the police academy. He was there years later, though, on the count of his time in the service, so we never crossed paths until I came home.

Unlike me, Tony made it through the academy and through two years on the force before being suspended. A pimp needed two plates in his head after Salamanca got done with him. As the pimp was running underage girls, I don’t see the problem, but the union didn’t back him. He quit and went into the private side of law enforcement. I saw him in some of the same bars, enough to be cordial, but friendship only blossomed after I pulled him and his daughter from a fire. I think he considers it a debt of honor and our curious friendship has grown from there. Due to recent events, I find myself happy to know someone like him, with his connections.

It may be more precise to say that I knew of Tony Salamanca in high school; I knew of no one who really hung with him. For a good part of my four years, I thought Tony was a punk with a bad attitude who only desired to smoke cigarettes and wait outside the principal’s office. That said, I’d never had a problem with the guy. One day, I rather grew to like him.

I’d been in a car accident on a Friday, rear-ended by a drunk driver. I was the picture of ER chic Monday morning, wearing a white neck brace—the old foamy white kind that made you look like you borrowed the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s neck for the day, not the new plastic kind that make you look like you’re part Borg. Being unfashionable in high school is bad, but that was nothing new to me. I was grunge before grunge hit the east coast, which put me at odds with my peers who were either Abercrombie preppy, refugees from a Grateful Dead show, or the next Kool Moe Dee.

Worse, being in high school and showing weakness was dangerous, especially for me. Although I had endeavored to share the milk of human kindness with my fellows, I had made a few enemies along the way, too. High school is a lot like a bar full of tough guys, only with more alcohol. When they find out you’ve got kung fu, every Billy Badass wants to step up and find out how good it is. Mine was, and is, excellent, but I didn’t wish that to define me. In high school, little matters about your wishes. Something gets out about you, and you’re That Guy. So, I was Kung-Fu Guy. This apparently threatened Football Star Guy, Rich Kid Guy, Wannabe Thug Guy, and My Home Life Sucks Guy. Oddly, though Tony could be said to be that last guy, he never crossed my path or gave me grief. We shared a certain respect in the pantheon of high school outcasts that didn’t make us friends, but didn’t make us rivals.

At any rate, this particular Monday, a kid named Matt Barker saw an opportunity and took it. Barker was a big, blond, red-faced kid who on his own may not have been a complete asshole, but had found his place with the in-crowd as their enforcer. He was dull-witted and aggressive, always a bad combination, unless you’re a bully, which Matt was. He’d been in my face a few times, but we hadn’t clashed yet. Like I said, he was dull-witted, but a sort of idiot savant when it came to violence. He picked his moments. That Monday morning was one of those moments.

I was sitting with my girlfriend Aubrey in the senior cafeteria, soaking in some much deserved sympathy. Aubrey and I were a mismatched pair. She was blond-beautiful, money-popular and incongruously kind. A remarkable combination in a high schooler. We’d met through a writing class that had enflamed my passions for the written word and for her. Though she was too good for me, she talked to me. She was the first light of my life. The Other Guys hated me for the relationship.

As we all know, high school kids in cliques don’t do anything ballsy without their friends around. So, I sucked in air and tensed the hurt muscles in my neck when Chas Yurowski walked into the cafeteria with his crew of Rich Kid Guys and their designated muscle, Barker. Yurowski wore the collar up on his polo shirt, which framed his gold chain that matched the Rolex on his wrist. In seventh grade, I had nearly strangled him after he went through my stuff at a retreat the school hosted, before I realized how asinine the whole situation was. He had made life miserable for me since, using his extensive network to lock me out of any social happiness in school. After five and a half years, my injury was his opportunity.

He came over to my table, put his foot on an empty chair and leaned over it, so that he was able to look at Aubrey’s considerable cleavage.

“Hey Aubrey, your tits look great today. Wanna grab a movie and fuck Saturday night?”

Aubrey made a disgusted noise and looked away. I felt my heart kick into high gear as the first adrenaline hit. I stood up.

“What’s the matter, don’t you like movies?” Chas said, ignoring me. Barker had moved off to my left. I knew he’d come for my neck. See a weakness and exploit it.

Chas continued. “I mean, I know you like to fuck. Everyone knows that. I just though you might like to again,--“

“Fuck off, Chas,” I cut in. “Now.”

“--since I’m sure the limp-dick fag here can’t get it up for you,” he continued, ignoring me.

I can handle insults. The popular clique had been throwing them my way for quite some time. They had hurt, but didn’t by then. I had finally found my own friends and a beautiful girlfriend, and graduation was only five months away. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and had decided it wasn’t an oncoming train. I just wanted to graduate and get to college. Insults were rarely a reason to fight. I had learned this the hard way. However, I have not attained complete enlightenment. I was, and still am, territorial of my women-folk.

“Go away, Chas,” Aubrey said, politely paraphrasing my earlier command.

There was a tinge in her voice, fear I think, because she knew this wasn’t a fight I’d win. Chas, and more importantly, Barker, were not going away. Barker put his hand on me and tried to shove me back down in the seat. I resisted. My neck hurt, and I tried to ignore it, but a ripple of pain in my jaws betrayed me. Aubrey was right. I wasn’t going to win this fight.

“You got something to say, Spears?” Barker growled.

Suddenly, Salamanca was just there, between Barker and me. Salamanca smelled like fresh cigarettes, probably having just finished one outside the cafeteria. I didn’t mind at the time.

“The fuck you want, burn-out?” Barker barked at Salamanca.

“You and your buddies get out of here,” Salamanca said in an even, firm voice.

“You don’t tell me what to do, burn-out.”

I found myself a detached observer at this point. I couldn’t admit then, but I was grateful for Tony’s intervention. I knew Tony enough to know he wouldn’t care about gratitude, that he was doing this for his own reasons. Probably, because he wanted a shot at Barker.

“Barker, just cause your old man beats your ass at home, don’t mean you can here,” Salamanca said. The pale splotches on Barker’s face flushed even with his permanently red cheeks . He cursed and swung at Salamanca. Salamanca stepped inside the punch, blocking with his left forearm. He fired a compact right into Barker’s nose, which exploded with blood. Barker was tough, and though his eyes watered, he came at Salamanca smoothly with a left to the body. Not smooth enough. Salamanca pivoted and fired another right into Barker’s face, then a left. Barker changed tactics and barreled into Tony, trying to pick him up and slam him on the ground. It was a mistake, and Salamanca suddenly had him on the ground, choking him from behind.

“Get the fuck—gah,” Barker managed before Salamanca cut his air

“Get the fuck what?” Salamanca said. His voice was still that same even tone, with only a trace of hostility. Salamanca held him long enough for a smart man to give up, but Barker was still flailing around. Chas apparently had enough at this point, and moved to kick Salamanca in the head. Even in a neck brace, I was still more than enough for Chas. I caught him with an elbow to the teeth, followed by a knee to the stomach. He dropped to his knees and puked blood, and for a moment I was worried I really hurt the dumb bastard. None of the rest of his clique moved.

Barker’s face was a purple by that point.

“You ready to play nice?” Salamanca said to him.

“Fuck you,” Barker managed.

“Guess you don’t need to breathe yet.”

Barker gurgled as Salamanca tightened his hold. Someone from Barker’s clique snickered a little. Barker had thirty pounds, easy, on Salamanca. Now, the biggest badass in the school could only breathe when the school dirt bag let him. Barker would have blushed. Except, blood couldn’t get to his head. Salamanca: cool, calm. He wasn’t trying to kill Barker, just show him something. Kids today would call it being owned. Barker, ever slow-witted and stubborn, cussed at Tony whenever he gave him some air, thereby stretching out the whole scene to a comedic length. Even Barker’s clique was chuckling, except for Chas who still knelt on the floor where I’d dropped him. It may have gone even longer, except that I spotted Mr. Bryson loping his lanky frame toward the lunchroom. Mr. Bryson was famous for his sneaked cigarettes, during which this melee had ensued.

“Bryson,” I said to Salamanca.

Chas managed to get to his feet. One of his crew gave him a napkin to staunch the blood. Salamanca nodded at me and whispered something in Barker’s ear. When he released him, Barker staggered to his feet and marched out of the cafeteria, nearly colliding with Mr. Bryson. I liked Mr. Bryson. He was one of the few teachers who knew the score, knew that Chas was a little shit. He surveyed the scene, saw that there was no permanent damage and walked back out to have another cigarette.

#

I park my truck and look at the old brick building housing Tony’s office. The rain is beating honestly now. The building is free of graffiti and the sidewalk and front steps do not even reveal as much as a cigarette butt, though they could definitely use a mason. Tony wasn’t a particularly clean guy in high school and he often had gone days without shaving, but the Marines had changed him into someone who liked his HQ squared away.

I don’t know if it’s right to involve him in this, but my reverie convinced me he is the only guy I can go to. I climb down out of the truck and walk up the policed steps through the light rain. His office is on the first floor. I think he lives on the second. I buzz to be let in.

“Yeah?” Tony says in through the intercom.

“It’s Spears.”

“Holy shit.”

The door buzzes open. I find him sitting with his feet up on his desk, a cigar tucked into his mouth on the right side and a Buffalo Sabres mug in his hand. Despite his mullet and attire, he has an air of professionalism about him. He sees me and puts down his coffee.

“Spears, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”