Donnybrook: A Novel by Frank Bill

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    A man’s voice hollered, “Jarhead?”
    He turned. Tig’s cousin, Alonzo Conway, came into the dirt-floored, tin-sided garage carrying two red five-gallon gas containers. “Sorry, son, didn’t know you’s on the wire.”
    Jarhead told Tammy, “I gotta get. I’ll call Sunday evening.”
    Tammy asked, “Who’s that?”
    “Alonzo. One of the guys helping me get to the Donnybrook. Love you.”
    “Love you.”
    Jarhead hung up the phone.
    Alonzo owned a fifty-acre plot with a monstrous rundown farmhouse out in the sticks, along the Ohio River. He placed the gasoline-filled containers on the floor. Offered a hand to Jarhead. A cigarette hung from his lip. Ash fell as he spoke. “Wanna thank you again for helping Cousin Tig. Seeing as you won’t take no cash, left something on your bunk in the house.” Alonzo’s fudge-tinted hair was wild and fatty in all directions. His skin was fiery red. Glowed with sweat beneath his T-shirt and jeans. He pulled the cigarette from his lip. Flipped it out the sliding tin doors behind him, onto the red clay. Winked an eye to Jarhead. Picked up the gas containers. Said, “Best hurry up yonder ’fore it gets cold.” Walked to the rear of the garage.
    In the house, floorboards gave and screeched under Jarhead’s boots. He pushed the bedroom door open. A girl who appeared no older than a freshman in high school sat on his cot. Hands behind a head of hair the shade of pond mud, thick-bristled and shoulder-length. Her complexion was steam white. She had metallic hazel eyes outlined by Mötley Crüe mascara. She was Twizzler-lipped. Two bra-less mounds lumped beneath a V-neck Hanes cut low. Her flat belly with a thick-gauged piercing poked out above a pair of cutoff sweats. Her right leg bent at the knee. Left leg wrapped in a leather brace. Piece of steel attached to it ran down to a thick-heeled shoe. A matching shoe attired her right foot. She smiled, her teeth vanilla-tinted. “Where you get all this money?”
    The Walmart sack of cash with Jarhead’s clothing sat beside her.
    Jarhead approached her. Said, “None of your worry.” And grabbed the sack. Asked, “Who the shit are you?”
    The girl smiled, said, “Mag Pie.”
    “The hell you want?”
    “Whatever you want. I’m here for you saving Cousin Tig.”
    Jarhead started to laugh. “Girl, you’re all of what—fifteen? I ain’t into jail-bait snatch.”
    She lowered her hands to her knees. Pouted her lips. Batted her eyes. Then cupped both of the mounds under her shirt. Thumbs brushed back and forth, hardened her nipples. “I’s seventeen. Can’t you tell by the way I filled out? My sister Key Hole is fifteen. But she got a nicer set than I got.”
    Jarhead swallowed hard, told her, “Look, I’ve got me a proper female. Two kids. Mouths to feed. No interest in defying my woman’s trust.”
    Mag Pie bent forward. Balanced herself. Stood up. Kick-stand limped toward Jarhead. Reached for his crotch. He slapped her hand away. She blushed. “Tig says you’re a fighter. I like it rough.”
    Jarhead shook his head, told her, “Ain’t interested.”
    She touched the leather brace on her leg. Fingered the metal. “Is it ’cause of my noodle leg? No worry, I can take you some places that girl of yours never has.”
    Jarhead raised his voice. “I got no interest in fucking a kid. You need go on and get.”
    “The shit’s going on in here?” Alonzo came into the room. Sweaty and fuel-scented.
    “Your new friend don’t wanna rub openings with me, Uncle. Says I too young.”
    Alonzo stared at Jarhead. “Is that so? Shit far, just tryin’ to thank you for your services. Be awful rude you didn’t give her a test ride.”
    Jarhead wanted to be even ruder, beat Alonzo’s complexion into every shade of Life Savers candy. “I done told her, ain’t interested in fucking no kid. Or any female other than my girl for that matter.”
    Alonzo said, “Girl like Mag’s a hundred dollar a squirt. You can take the