Donnybrook: A Novel by Frank Bill Page A

day with her for nothing.”
    Mag interrupted. “The day?”
    Alonzo told her, “Figured you’d like a young buck instead of them wrinkled mule-dick farmers.”
    Jarhead grabbed Alonzo’s arm, said, “She’s seventeen, you sick fuck.”
    Alonzo jerked his arm away. Eye-fucked Jarhead, told him, “No man wants a wore-out section of puss. Younger the better. And no man touches and disrespects me in my own home.”
    Jarhead held his sack of cash tighter, said smoothly, “I best be going, make my way to the Donnybrook. I’m a fighter, gotta fight.”
    Alonzo stepped into Jarhead’s face. “That’s what you keep telling, so maybe we ought’s find out if it’s true.”
    Mag Pie chimed, “Should see all the cash he got in that there sack.”
    Alonzo glanced down to the blue plastic sack that hung weighted from Jarhead’s left hand, asked, “You rob a bank or something? Tig tells that you’s a helluva wheelman.”
    Jarhead’s right hand clenched into a fist. Pressed the knuckles bone-white. His hips were already positioned to give Alonzo a quick beating, and he said, “Told you I’s going to fight in the Donnybrook, and it cost a grand to fight.”
    Alonzo reached for the sack. Jarhead pulled it away. Came down hard with his head. Butted Alonzo’s. Shifted his left hip back, came forward with a right uppercut. Alonzo fell backward, bumped into Mag Pie. His hands triangled around his face, and he shouted, “Watch out, little bitch!”
    “You watch out, clown-footed fuck.”
    Jarhead stepped to the bedroom’s doorway. Tig blocked it. Bare-chested, pale, and bandaged. Announced, “Got a mess of trouble. They’s four county cruisers out in the drive.”
    Down the hall a cop’s fist pounded on the kitchen door.
    Alonzo told Tig, “Go get the guns.”

 
    12
    Something scorched from the tarnished trailer lingered, littered the country air. Muddled voices rebounded from inside.
    Whalen had searched ten abandoned houses in two days on various county back roads. Houses once white, weathered to gray. Roofs rotted. Busted windows and doors opening to yellowed and peeled wallpaper. Gutted trucks and tractors in yards of knee-high ragweed. But no trace of meth cooks, only disregarded memories.
    He’d followed the mudded path once graveled. No mailbox at the end of the drive. Seen two four-wheelers parked up by a woodshed. Miniature wooden wagon attached to one of them. White bags of trash piled on the back. Someone was living inside the trailer. Whalen had watched several swells of gray rat run to and from it.
    He now sat in his cruiser, engine off, window down, surrounded by briars and ivy. Watched the trailer. Being this deep into the seclusion of the backwoods made Whalen think about his secret and the girls who were no more. The boy he’d not visited in quite a while. Wouldn’t be visiting him today, he thought, grabbing his radio.
    Keying it, he said, “Tanner, this is two.”
    “Go ’head, two.”
    “I’m down past Blue Hole at the old Farnsley place. Gonna investigate a suspicious smell coming from the trailer. Possible meth lab. Send Officer Meadows down here ASAP just in case. Get a state boy on standby.”
    “Copy.”
    Whalen stepped from the cruiser slow. Kept his eyes on the cardboard that replaced the broken windows. Searched for peepholes with guarding eyes. Focused on the front door that he approached with his gun removed from its holster. Safety off. Stopping within earshot of the front door, he smelled rot, piss, objects soured, and burning chemical. The muddled voices from inside became clear.
    A female hollered, “Son of a bitch, I kill you!”
    “Bitch, get your mask on!” Sounded as though a man was yelling through a foam Dixie cup.
    The female said, “Let me have a whiff.”
    The male threatened, “I done telling you.” Followed by a sound that echoed like a cleaver slamming through thick cuts of meat. Then a thud that shook the trailer.
    Kneeling down, Whalen positioned his Glock